


Edge of Darkness

by Maygra



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:58:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra
Summary: This is the way Comes a Horseman and Revelations 6: 8 would have turned out if we'd been writing for P/D and Rysher.(This was written in 1997. Fair warning, the melodrama and overwrought prose are strong with this one. )





	Edge of Darkness

EDGE OF DARKNESS  
by Meghan Black & Maygra de Rhema  
(and M&M Productions; melts down your keyboard, but not your hand)  


************ SEACOUVER, USA ************ 

Methos cursed the heavy traffic that prevented him from getting to Duncan. He had to protect him; he had to gain protection from him. Finally, veering off onto a side street, the Immortal was able to get to the dojo from a back way. He rushed through the doors, then around the corner into the gym, letting the comforting presence of his lover wash over him -- calm him.

"Methos, are you all right?" MacLeod rushed out of his office and Methos felt the familiar hands on his arms and wanted to sink into their warmth and security. Taking hold of himself, he started to explain when the question hit him.

"Have you ever heard of an Immortal named Kronos?"

"Kronos?" _Oh shit!_ Methos opened his mouth to say the words that would either bind Duncan closer to him or turn him away forever. He'd thought to keep his past, or at least most of it, from his lover, but the fates would not be denied. He would lay his soul bare and let the Scotsman determine their destiny from this day forward.

But, before he could utter the first syllable, the sense of another slammed into him. They were close in this building. He looked to Duncan questioningly. The lift gate rose and another ghost from his past approached the pair.

"You!" She raised her sword, eyes wide with fear, hatred and memory.

"What's she doing here?" The question was out before he could regain control of his surprise. He put Duncan, the common denominator between master and slave, between himself and the witch -- his one-time captive. With his eyes, Methos appealed to MacLeod. Then aloud, "Duncan, keep her away from me. She's crazy!"

And to the woman, "You don't know me." Could he bluff his way out of this one so easily? He doubted it. So close -- he was so close to being free from his haunted past.

"Do you think I could ever forget your face?"

Methos now pleaded openly with the other Immortal man. "Duncan, don't believe her. I need to talk to you, alone."

Cassandra wouldn't give up, however, and before he realized what was happening, Methos was fleeing the dojo while the man he loved held onto a woman who would see him dead. The scene played out so quickly, he could not later remember when he'd lost control, letting Duncan force him to leave rather than face his ghosts and defeat them forever. One thing was sure. _If I ever face her again, that bitch won't have another chance to ruin my happiness._

Wearily he tried to decide his next course of action. Did he stay and fight Kronos, re-join his brother or return to MacLeod? Mere hours ago his life held some semblance of normalcy. Two lovers returning home, hand in hand and then they'd sensed that other one: Kronos or Cassandra, it mattered not now. At that instant the momentary bliss was wrenched from him just as Kronos had wrenched the knife from his chest less than three hours ago. The Immortal dragged his feet through the water puddles of the wet streets, knowing he had not the strength to fight Kronos again. At one time he'd fought him the only way he could and won, but he doubted it could be done again. Besides, why should he? This lifetime was over and a new one was reaching out, beckoning like hands from the grave.

He feared that MacLeod would believe the woman, Cassandra. He knew the Scotsman well and that knowledge included the realization that the Highlander's world had yet to embrace all the lovely shades of gray Methos had discovered over the course of 5000 years. And Kronos? _How can I battle an enemy who knows all my weaknesses and can play me like a fine instrument?_ Methos shuddered as he recalled how he and Kronos had lived for hundreds of years -- brothers, warriors, lovers, tormentor and tormented.

With a sigh of resignation, he headed back to the other's abode. He must never let Kronos know what MacLeod meant to him. He'd hide the depth of his love until his last dying breath. Then Methos realized that if he didn't play to Kronos' liking, that prophecy would come true sooner than he'd like. For as much as defeat offered release, the Immortal realized that he was not yet ready to end his life. So, he made his decision. He'd dance with Kronos for now. He'd let him think the Horsemen would ride again. Just as he'd convinced his Brother of his loyalty once before, he could do it again. And this time he had the experience of several thousand years under his belt to call upon.

Yes, he could do it. Not for such a noble cause as saving mankind, the earth or some misguided sense of good vs. evil. He would do it for himself and the Scotsman, the noblest cause of all.

**********

It took mere moments to wipe out millennia of ingrained humanity. He shrugged out of his civility as he would the Trench that was a staple of his wardrobe. The one that sometimes hid the sword he'd become lazy about carrying lately. _Never again._ Methos thought grimly. The blade now settled reassuringly against his thigh as he put the last finishing touches on his new persona. What remained when he entered the old power plant to meet Kronos was a replica of Death, one of the Four Horsemen and a force to be reckoned with.

 

He was prepared and accepted what would be required of him. Methos knew of only one way to stop Kronos. Against him, the ancient Immortal knew he could not win -- but with him and by his side, there might be a chance. It was what Kronos expected of those who were *with* him that made him shiver now in the stifling warmth of the abandoned building. Already Methos could feel his Brother's hands and mouth possessing him and he hardened his soul as he approached the man intently studying something on a computer screen in the far corner of the room.

***************

They spoke of power, death, and the thrill of the chase. Methos could feel his breath coming harder as Kronos talked of their omnipotence. The ease with which it all came flooding back frightened him.

"You were one of a kind, Methos, as were we all." Kronos cast him a coy look before turning back toward the blue light of the computer monitor. He continued to speak, offering Methos his back, testing the depth of his loyalty.

Yes, the man at the desk would know and require some evidence of the old Methos before trust could be established. Defiance perhaps, a bit of devious backstabbing, the barest room for doubt, he could not disappoint his Brother. Sliding the blade stealthily from his coat, his foot halted in mid-step at the slight rustle of heavy cloth. They continued the verbal banter as Kronos made as if he were intently watching the screen while Methos' hazel eyes narrowed in concentration. The blade rose above his head as he approached the Horseman's back, knowing that he but continued a game begun over three thousand years ago.

His arm descended and was blocked by two strong hands. They grasped his wrist and held a knife to his throat simultaneously. Methos caressed the blade with his neck, rubbing against the sharp edge like a purring cat. He then backed away from Kronos, letting the metal slide through several layers of skin. It was a formidable and erotic sight that met Kronos' eyes when they finally stood, several feet apart, facing each other. Methos' chest heaving with a combination of adrenaline, fear, excitement and memories, the last he tried desperately to put away -- and his thick, red blood trickling from the slice on his neck to disappear under his collar. Yes, the man who faced Kronos now was closer to his Brother than anything he'd seen since their first reacquaintance yesterday. Closer than Methos knew.

The sword skittered to the floor as Kronos pursued him across the catwalk. Methos remained planted in the same spot until he finally felt the warm breath of his brother against his face, while the hard-muscled chest pressed him backwards. His body's reaction was immediate. Heart sped to a rate equivalent to the rush he hadn't felt in 3000 years. Skin flushed hot as the desert sands on which he'd spent so many nights in those arms. Green-brown eyes met steel gray and neither could look away.

"Don't you want to feel it again? Holding the fate of others in the palm of your hand? Don't tell me you didn't miss it, Brother -- that you didn't miss *us*." _Miss the power, the passion or both? It hardly mattered anymore._

Yes, the power. It all had to do with power. Methos inhaled deeply, smelling the fear of those who would oppose him. The memories brought a rush of sensation, not the least of which he now felt between his legs. It did not go unnoticed by Kronos either who even now pressed his thigh hard against Methos' crotch.

"I knew I could count on you. I knew it in the beginning and I knew it yesterday. All my planning and scheming over the years could not replace your genius. That's what I've missed -- among other things." Methos' eyes dropped to the cruel mouth forming into a welcoming smile. He'd passed the first test and it was time for his reward.

"So you still want me?" Methos let just the slightest hint of longing edge his voice and found it not as difficult as he'd expected.

"Not want -- need." Good. Even better. Kronos needing was much easier to manipulate than Kronos wanting.

"As I recall, you never admitted to needing anything -- well except for maybe one thing." He let the meaning of his words dangle enticingly before Kronos. _Might as well raise the curtain. It's showtime._

Methos let his hand slide down the length of Kronos' side and hips, then slid around to grasp the jean-covered ass and pull it against him. He could feel the thickened cock resting against his thigh and smiled back. Still their eyes never wavered. Kronos' face was inches from his own and Methos' control slipped a notch as he closed the gap, lightly touching the thin lips to his own. Kronos opened his mouth to receive the offering, then pulled back, inhaled deeply and whispered against the sensuous mouth.

"You smell the same, Methos."

The dark head bent to its task and prevented further verbal communication from his Brother, but the simple remark pleased him immensely and he wasn't sure why. He deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue farther back into Kronos' mouth, roaming across teeth, soft tissue and muscle.

"And you taste the same." Kronos could remain still no longer. He grabbed the hand which still rested against his thigh and moved it around, pressing Methos' palm into his crotch, then catching his breath when his Brother took over and began massaging him through the thick denim. Methos knew there would be more talking, more testing to be done. For now he would give Kronos what he wanted, while reaffirming his own survival -- at whatever the cost. And was it so high a price that he begrudged this show of solidarity? No, he thought not.

"Yes, you need me, Kronos. Don't forget it -- " Methos' next words were cut off by the hardness of Kronos' mouth and the next sound echoing off the walls of old plant was the metallic slide of a zipper and Methos' gasp of pain and surprise, followed immediately by a sigh of surrender.

As Kronos wrapped his fingers around Methos his body was already responding to the aggressive treatment he'd always associated with his captain. His will might shy away from the memory of long nights making love to the insatiable Kronos, but his body remembered and pleaded far more.

"You always did like it rough, brother," Kronos ground through clenched teeth against Methos' ear. His free hand descended and he shoved the other man's pants down, allowing the now fully hardened cock to dance free of its confinement. Methos could not suppress his low moan as the stroking, biting, sucking and scratching triggered a 3000-year-old nostalgia reminiscent of a time when Kronos could arouse him with a glance.

By mutual consent, the two men lowered themselves to the cold cement floor, but neither noticed any discomfort. Other, more urgent sensations required attention. Once they'd managed to get rid of their restrictive clothing, Kronos made as if to please his brother, trailing a fiery path of kisses and little nibbles across the flushed skin as he pressed him back against the floor. That should have been Methos' first clue. Kronos never kissed tenderly or bit lightly. The automatic reaction of his body had resulted in a position of pure vulnerability. Knees slightly bent, his thighs had widened as far as possible, allowing full access to every part of his body. And Kronos took full advantage of it.

Before Methos could raise a cry or hand to stop him, Kronos had grabbed the sensitive sac between his legs and now held his balls just tight enough to get his full attention.

"That's. Not. Necessary," Methos gasped through the veil of pain that had descended like a thick fog. He knew better than to move even a fraction of an inch.

"It wouldn't be any fun if it was necessary, now would it?" Kronos returned conversationally. "Just wanted to bring back some of the old fire, you understand," he said by way of explanation. Methos didn't argue, but rolled with the mood of dominant and submissive.

Once Kronos saw that he wouldn't have to fight Methos, he seemed to lose some interest in the game and continued more of the slow seduction. His palms rolled across the nipples he'd most recently suckled, feeling the hard little nubs reaching out further for the rough stimulation. Methos found his body's deception almost amusing in the far reaches of his brain that still functioned. How ironic that he'd willingly walked into Kronos' arms solely to thwart the madman's plans, only to find himself betrayed by the memories of his own body.

Hips lifted up upward Kronos, searching out his touch. And while the Horseman leader obliged the silent plea with his mouth, licking and biting the distended cock, his hand reached around for Methos' sword lying beside them. Kronos' needs had ever been simple -- but not always pleasant. He held the leather bound hilt up to Methos for his inspection.

"Remember this, little brother?" Through the haze of desire Methos focused on the object held aloft. His pupils dilated with remembered horrors, followed quickly by a renewed pounding in his groin as the blood pumped fast and furious through his cock. The muscles of his ass clenched instinctively as Kronos threw his weight across the suddenly taut body and smiled at the groan accompanying the press of steel and leather against flesh.

********

Kronos ran his nail along the bare chest, stopping to play around the teeth marks still healing at juncture of shoulder and neck. "So you'll kill MacLeod?" It wasn't really a question.

Methos shifted slightly on the hard floor, searching for some position that would ease the deep ache in his body. Kronos' idea of lovemaking had not changed, unless you call an enhanced imagination, honed over centuries of torture, change. But this time it had not been pure submission. The man now following the line of scratches and bites across his torso also carried the marks of Methos' knowledge of pleasure and pain, most of which had been learned at his lover's hands. Lover. How quickly that term had altered its meaning to him. Last week his lover had been gentle, caring, sensitive -- his other half. Today his lover was dominant, controlling and demanding the kind of surrender only Methos could offer and survive.

Turning onto his side and resting the angular chin in a hand propped up on his elbow, Methos thought about his next words, the answer to Kronos' question. The glint of cold metal caught his eye and he realized that at this very moment he had the opportunity to snatch the sword up from the floor where it lay inches from his free hand, the opportunity to end this madness forever. Then he saw the fresh blood staining the leather of the grip, darkened streaks blending with older, more faded marks, centuries forgotten, yet always there, lurking in the pits of ancient memory... Another toy used by Kronos to show how many he "cared". How could he have forgotten Kronos' penchant for inanimate objects? Methos' sword had always been one of his favorites and was now the cause of a lingering burn between his long, muscular legs. And he'd let him. _I could have stopped him. I'm not his soulless, do-anything-for survival slave any longer, playing games by his rules. I have everything it takes to halt this seduction at any point. But I didn't. And I won't take his head now, either. We'll play *my* game this time._

Methos raised a curved finger and traced the scar that marked Kronos' face. "Yes, I'll kill him for *you*." Was there ever any question what the answer would be? He'd have sworn anything to get the chance to save his Scotsman and avenge the past. Even if he and Duncan were never to be again, he could not leave him to the wolves.

By his own will, he'd stripped away the facade of humanity, layer by excruciatingly won layer; it was what Kronos had wanted and what he'd need to see this through. The illusion of hunger -- the hunger for domination, love and acceptance, had served him well in the past. Kronos had enjoyed making him starve for it once, but Methos had finally had his fill and it was his turn to tempt another with the tasty morsels and juicy bits of power that he knew his Brother could not resist. _But will I succumb to its call as well?_

He pushed Kronos back onto the floor, holding firm when the other would have squirmed back up. "No. It's my turn now." Something in the murky depths of those ever changing eyes must have relayed the message that he would not be denied, for his Brother acquiesced and lay back, cradling his head in a bent arm. Kronos was murmuring something about it possibly being even better this time around as Methos lowered his head to the rough mass of curls between Kronos' legs.

Methos began with a hard bite into the soft indentation where hip met thigh. The Immortal beneath him screamed his surprise and tried to buck free, but strong fingers dug into his ass, holding him still against the dark head. "Not this time, Kronos. Don't fight me."

Kronos decided to let Methos have his way this time. He was curious as to what his Brother had learned over the centuries and it never hurt to let the submissive play master. It sometimes helped put them in the right frame of mind later. Grinning his acceptance and pleasure at the new arrangement, he pushed his hips up into Methos' face and let the man do as he would.

"Now that I have your attention," Methos said, referring to the still red indentations, "I'll have your manhood." It all came back to him in a flash. Just what Kronos liked -- what turned him on and made him lose control. Practiced mouth suckled, fingers tweaked, massaged and pinched while Kronos' legs spread wider, trying to make himself more easily accessible to all of Methos' ministrations. His groans filled the room as Methos slid his mouth deep down over the engorged cock, letting it hit the back of his throat. He used only his own saliva and the bit of fluid seeping from the head to lubricate searching fingers.

Methos felt himself falling with Kronos, descending into that pit of urgency that had always ripped through his very mind, stealing all logic from him. He clawed his way to the surface of reality, only to be dragged back down again by the overwhelming sensations of demand. His final effort to hang on was ripped from him when Kronos raised his hips and pushed his head further down and he could not deny that it was what they both wanted.

His turgid tongue snaked out and probed the pulsing tight ring of muscles lower down. When the tip pushed its way through, the soft, rounded cheeks jerked in his hands and he pressed deeper. The bitter taste brought with it memories of nights spent satisfying his partner's every want and need, doing whatever it took to elicit that cry of pleasure he so longed to hear, and Methos' own cock jumped with remembered sensations of repulsion and revelation. With a growl and one swift movement, he sat up, roughly pulling Kronos' legs over his shoulders and plunged himself into the now loosened opening.

Kronos roared, urging him on. "Yes, Brother! Yes!" Methos pumped in and out, unmindful and uncaring of what Kronos wanted, but it didn't matter. As the pulling sensation began in his lower back, feeding through every nerve fiber and ending, Kronos emptied himself onto both of them. The feeling of sticky warmth smeared across his belly sent Methos over the edge and his cries joined Kronos' as he came deep inside his Brother.

********

Methos brought the last of his bags out to the truck. The sooner he gathered up Kronos and got out of town, the better for all of them. He needed distance right now from his old self and MacLeod. If he was to be effective at all in his plans, he couldn't be distracted by his former lover's presence, always worrying if he'd have to come between Duncan and Kronos.

And he didn't have the guts to say good-bye. Just out of Immortal sensing range, Kronos watched from around a brick veneered corner. When Methos had left him lying on the floor, hastily making some excuse about needing to pack a bit before they left, jealousy had burned deep inside the Horseman leader. What they'd done at the power plant meant nothing as far as he was concerned, proved nothing. Kronos knew the man now loading his truck too well. All this afternoon had proved was that Methos was still good at playing the whore for the person holding the most power. Until he was sure, he'd make certain he didn't lie down for his Scotsman lover again, even if it meant watching him 24 hours a day. Kronos would not be played the fool without someone's head as forfeit.

Opening the back of the truck with one hand, Methos grabbed a backpack and slung it inside. His head jerked up and he sniffed the air like an animal identifying its prey. _Kronos? No, this one was softer, not so rough around the edges. Fuck!_ He'd hoped to avoid this confrontation, but now he saw that leaving would be much more difficult than he'd originally planned. Duncan wouldn't allow him to face Kronos alone, no matter what the witch had said -- unless he thought Methos wanted to go with him.

"Going somewhere?" Duncan strolled up to the truck as if their meeting was totally coincidental, yet nothing out of the ordinary. Methos dropped the second bag he'd been about to deposit in the truck and studied MacLeod closely. His body language belied his words. Tension, betrayal, confusion, doubt, pain -- they were all there and he could read him so well.

"This has nothing to do with you, Duncan," he continued throwing luggage in the trunk. "The less you're involved the better for all of us."

"No! The better for you, not *us*."

Methos read the Scotsman correctly. As much as he'd wanted Duncan to think he was leaving of his own free will, it still hurt that he fell for it so easily -- believed the worst with minimal proof. Stuffing his own emotions and needs back into that dark corner where they'd resided for so many centuries, he braced himself for what he was about to do.

"It was nice, Mac, but we both knew it was only temporary. Did you really think I could be satisfied with your quiet Boy Scout life for very long?" God was he really saying that?

"So what Cassandra said is true?"

"That depends. Was I a Horseman? Yes. Did I rape and pillage at will? Yes. Did I enjoy it?" Methos paused for full effect. "Yes, MacLeod, oh, yes!" He turned back to the truck as if he considered the subject closed.

Make this...."Yes, oh gods, yes." So it will match your thoughts echoed later on.

Mac had other ideas. Before he could react, Methos found himself slammed hard against the side of the vehicle, Duncan's hands like steel bands around his arms, pinning him securely.

"Did what we had mean nothing to you? The days shared, the discovery -- the nights we spent?" While Methos stared him squarely in the eye, Duncan rushed through his words, ending them with a long, hard kiss meant to suck t he very breath from his lover's body as he took the life they'd shared back into himself. Took it back from the one who no longer desired it.

When he raised his head again, Methos could have sworn his body had gone lighter for want of a soul.

The Scotsman couldn't continue, but Methos saw the brightness in his eyes that he would have died rather than show another human being. So he looked away, presenting a stark, angular profile to the man holding him. Duncan took the gesture as a final rejection. He read what Methos would have him see. _No, it meant nothing. Gods, what a lie._

"So, it's you and Kronos now?" Duncan asked in a low, soft voice. MacLeod searched Methos' face for some indication that he'd misunderstood -- jumped to the wrong conclusion, as was so often his wont where that infuriatingly delicious man was concerned. He saw none of the proof he required however, forgetting that Methos had over 5000 years to master such a simple task as hiding one's emotions. It was really quite easy once one shut down the heart, lighthouse to the soul and reflected in the eyes. No, he wouldn't see the truth.

"Yes." All he could muster at the moment, but the final word for Duncan.

"We're through..." MacLeod said just loud enough for Kronos to hear from his hiding place. He watched the Highlander walk away, cold gray eyes shifting to observe his "Brother".

Methos remained unmoving beside the truck for longer than Kronos had expected. He'd thought Methos would get into his car and drive away in disgust, but instead he seemed to require the vehicle for physical support. Once MacLeod had passed out of sight, Kronos was witness to a rare and unexpected expression of emotion crossing the aesthetic features.

_And what are you showing me, here, dear brother?_ Kronos wondered, lips curving up in a smile that was both predatory and jealous. _Tell me you have not grown so soft as to fall for a noble spirit and a pretty face?_ But Methos had. It was obvious to anyone who knew him well, and Kronos, did indeed, know him well. _And you told him such pretty lies. Always the master of lies, Methos. And he believed you. How can you break your heart over a man who has not one ounce of appreciation for who you are or what you can be? But I appreciate you, brother. With all your charms..._ Time to remind Methos of who and what he really was. His brother was so distraught over MacLeod's reaction -- no matter that he had engineered the Scot's disgust -- Kronos was once more able to get within striking range without the older immortal realizing he was close until it was too late.

Methos' reaction to once more finding a blade buried in his chest was less of pain and shock this time as resignation.

*****

Methos sucked a sharp breath into aching lungs as life descended upon him once more. His initial instinct to reach for the pain in his chest arrested by a lack of viable movements in his hands and arms. Cool, damp air brushed his skin as awareness settled more forcibly into his foggy brain. His chest was bare, his hands were bound above him, and the air stank of petrol and fish and brine. They were near water then, near boats for Kronos' travel plans...something he required for shipping or for hiding.

The cold air moved again and Methos shivered, the pain subsiding in his chest, but the stiffened feel of dried blood on his skin was enough to remind him why and how he had gotten here, and in such a position. Kronos was no doubt a little annoyed with him for not having delivered Mac's head on a platter. He was not scoring points with his brother.

"Awake? Alive? Refreshed from your nap?" Kronos' voice was disgustingly cheerful, expression echoing his delight as he came into Methos' range of vision. _He is, in so many ways, like a child,_ Methos recalled as he observed the open, wide-eyed expression, the smile of pure delight at seeing Methos. A demented child, but a child.

"Not much of a friend, is your MacLeod. Easier to kill him," Kronos commented, circling behind him, out of sight but Methos knew he was close. The heat radiated off the other man in waves. "What do you owe him after all? More than you owe me?"

_A debt long since paid,_ Methos thought then went tense as a hand, hot against the bare skin of his shoulder, caressed him with a familiar firm gentleness. _Still familiar..._ He clamped down on the memories that had burned themselves irrevocably into his soul for three thousand years. That hand slipped along his shoulder and up his throat as Kronos tucked his head between Methos' upraised arm and face on the opposite side. "Is the debt paid, brother? The one to MacLeod? You've saved him. Does he know?"

"Probably not. Or care," Methos said indifferently as Kronos' tongue came out to lick delicately at his ear.

"Was it worth it-worth disobeying me? Was it worth breaking a promise to me? You may recall, my forgiveness has to be earned."

"I remember," Methos said quietly, forcing his body to remain relaxed as the rough fingers stroked along his chest, grazing the right nipple deliberately. Between the caress and the chill air, it hardened and rose until Kronos could begin cautiously plucking at it, pinching it until it grew overly sensitive to the lightest touch. That one spot thoroughly teased, Kronos' other hand and arm slid around his waist, fingers toying with the snap on his jeans then dancing away to stroke skin, or ply his caresses across the denim. Involuntarily Methos' hands clenched around the ropes at his wrists, unable to stop himself as he shifted his position on his knees. He heard Kronos chuckle softly in his ear.

"This is very much like a second honeymoon for us, is it not, Methos? Do you recall how I had to keep you bound for so many days when we first met -- just to make sure you would not cut my heart out? Does that passion still burn, brother? Can I summon it still after these many centuries?"

_Yes..._ Methos said nothing, trying to still his reaction to the patient caresses and touches, teases and pinches. Kronos could summon those reactions without half trying. He seemed to have forgotten nothing, no sensitive area, no perfect amount of pressure there or there. Methos fought back a gasp as Kronos pulled his head back, suckling at the tender spot just below his ear. Then went tense as a hand swept across his groin with practiced and sure strength. The snap was released, the zipper parted and the hot, strong hand covered him, stroked him.

_One can learn to enjoy a good rape..._ He thought ironically, knowing it both was and was not an assault. He was also aware that his punishment had not begun yet. This was simple preparation of the medium for Kronos' rather spectacular displays of displeasure. The man was good...the best Methos had seen in fifty centuries. He knew cruelty and excess, power and pleasure like few Methos had ever met.

Already his body was succumbing to the insistent persuasions as Kronos continued reacquainting himself intimately with his brother's body. The jeans were pushed down but not off as Kronos pressed against him, one hand on Methos' hardening cock and the other still stroking his throat. Kronos' own erection was pressed against Methos' back and buttocks, straining through the cloth.

"So tell me you missed me, Methos -- even if it's a lie -- and perhaps I will make this more pleasure than pain."

"I missed you," Methos breathed.

"How sweet," Kronos chuckled and reached once more between Methos' thighs, strong fingers pressing upward just below his balls to press a finger deep within him. Methos surged against the intrusion involuntarily; breath hissing out as Kronos chuckled. "Yes, I can see that you have," he said and began squeezing the soft sacs, taking the pressure right to the edge of pain, while his finger continued to probe and ply the sensitive tissue between Methos' buttocks. Methos closed his eyes, trying to ride the waves of sensation rather than respond to them but his hips flexed against the tormenting hand, driving the finger deeper, and he gasped. He bit his lip a moment later when the probe was withdrawn, Kronos' arms around his waist as he pulled him upright on his knees then moved. Cloth rasped against leather and it was no longer Kronos' jeans pressed to his backside but flesh, hot against his cool skin.

"There was a time when disobeying me would never have entered your mind," Kronos crooned against his ear, licking at his skin once more. He pressed close, the hard rise of his cock sliding between the cleft of Methos' buttocks, his hands tracing the muscles of the suspended arms as he bumped his body against Methos'. "There was a time when pleasing me was your first priority -- have you forgotten?"

"No," Methos hissed as the hands encircling his wrists pulled down, forcing the bonds to cut deeper into his skin and Kronos pushed him slowly, forcing him to lean forward, arms beginning to feel the strain of the awkward position. With his legs tangled in his jeans and Kronos' weight pressing against him, he couldn't adjust his position or his balance. His shoulders began to burn from the strain and he bit his lip harder, drawing blood, remaining silent.

"Be sure you don't ever forget again," Kronos hissed and bit his ear, one hand masterfully parting his buttocks. Then he was driving his cock into Methos' ass as he clutched his waist and let his weight press fully against his brother.

Methos cried out as his shoulders were wrenched back, his insides burning and tearing from the dry, sudden impalement by Kronos' cock. He was leaning forward as far as his bound arms would allow and he could feel the tendons tearing in his arms, the joints ready to give way as Kronos began driving deeper inside him, thrusts harsh and cruel. His own burgeoning erection faltered under the pain but Kronos was ready for that as well. His fingers closed around the softening flesh, stroking him with a gentleness completely at odds with the rest of his brutal treatment. Then his other hand snaked under the straining arms and covered Methos' nose and mouth, cutting off his air.

"Perhaps you remember this as well?" Kronos said harshly. "That the body can be willing even when the mind is not!"

Panic settled into Methos' brain, panic and pain and yet his body did betray him, responding to the stimulation, to the lack of oxygen. He moaned against the restraining hand, sparkles of light and color dancing before his eyes as he felt his body jerk, response adding to the pain, adding to Kronos' pleasure. Agony ripped through his back from the strain, pleasure swelled from his groin under the talented hand and Kronos was still driving into him, and the channel now slicked with blood as lubricant. Consciousness started to fail as his body succumbed, pumping helplessly into Kronos' hand as his brother spilled his hot seed into his body, marking him, claiming him once more with blood and sex and power. Orgasm complete, the pain resurged and Methos' last conscious thought the acknowledgment that even MacLeod's love could not wipe out the hold that Kronos still had on him.

***************

His own scream woke Methos as Kronos wrenched at his arm, resetting the dislocated shoulder with the stoic expertise of all good field medics. Methos made no move to test the injury, knowing that if nothing else, Kronos was a fair hand at rough first aid for both mortals and immortals. The joint would heal correctly. It wasn't the first time Kronos had had to set his shoulder or a broken limb. His sweater was flung at him and he did move then, easing into the torn and bloodied fabric. Kronos' hideaway was bone chillingly cold. He was not even surprised when Kronos' heavy sword came to rest against his throat.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now?" Kronos demanded. As usual his bloodlusts were running over. Raping and torturing his brother had done nothing but drive those demented passions to the forefront. This was Kronos at his most dangerous -- and when he was easiest to manipulate. The quiet, joyful controlled Kronos was nearly impossible to persuade -- but this one, the barbarian -- this one thought with his blood and passion -- and his cock. Not his head.

Taking Methos' head was a real threat but not likely -- else Kronos would never have bothered to tend him.

"Because you need me if you want the Horsemen to ride again," Methos said calmly, not surprised that the press of steel did nothing more than make him want to shrug his shoulder free of the weight. "Caspian and Silas are still alive."

The blade pressed deeper, the edge sliding enough to draw blood as Kronos came to one knee in front of him -- free hand reaching out to grasp his hair. "Master of lies, Methos?"

"You survived. So did I," He did not allow himself to flinch or blink as he watched the expression in Kronos' face change from wildness to calculation. "I can lead you to them," Methos offered.

The blade shifted slightly, angled to come up under Methos' chin and the older immortal lifted his head involuntarily leaning away, Kronos following until Methos was on his back again, Kronos' weight pressing him down, the blade between them. "And what about MacLeod? And the witch?"

"What about them?" Methos returned, as Kronos' hand sought his groin again. There were times in his past when he had thought Kronos insatiable desires more amusing than anything, but his own responses were starting to disgust him. Had he fooled himself into thinking that laying aside his humanity, the veneer of civilization would somehow be difficult? Was all of it MacLeod's influence? Had he anchored himself so deeply into the Highlander that his own personality was now dependent upon one man's strength? His own words seemed to haunt him as he waited for Kronos to reply. _Yes...oh, gods...yes..._ Pulling himself out of this mire of power and darkness was going to require a strength far outside himself. A strength available from only one source -- and he had to deny that source or lose it forever.

"They will come after you -- the witch at least. She wants us both dead."

"She will do what MacLeod counsels and he wants nothing to do with either of us," Methos said, forcing conviction into his words, his tone.

"So he said," Kronos murmured softly and Methos' eyes widened, wondering, terrified to think how much Kronos knew. But his brother offered him no more clues as he suddenly laid his blade aside, hands reaching up to cup Methos' head. Kronos' thigh pressed between the legs of the man trapped beneath him. "Well, then. Perhaps we shall change venues -- I have a little place in France. What about the others?"

"Silas is in the Ukraine. Caspian is in Bucharest. We can pick them up on the way," Methos said closing his eyes as Kronos let his passions rule again, the mouth nipping along his throat, once more leaving marks. His hips ground against Methos', bulge already signaling his readiness to continue their reunion, his domination -- whatever label Kronos chose to give it.

Then suddenly Kronos levered himself off Methos and rolled to his side, observing with pleasure the flushed cheeks and trembling body of his lover. "Then he'll be safe, for now; your MacLeod. I never punish twice for the same mistake," Kronos chuckled.

No. He didn't. But Methos knew that correction for a second mistake made sure there would not be third. Permanently sure.

"I'll go make our travel arrangements," Kronos said congenially and rose, leaving Methos on his back against the concrete.

Solitude. It would be a rare and precious commodity from now until the end -- whatever end this drama was forced to take. Methos took it, denying himself the urge to try and escape or elude Kronos. To do so now would ensure that Kronos would go after Mac, or Joe or anyone that Methos had even a vague affection for -- and not just to draw him out, but to make sure he had no place else, no one else to turn to. Quite the bloody shepherd was Kronos. Know where your flocks are, always -- must keep the wolves fed.

Methos stared up into the shadowed ceiling, feeling the darkness press around him, down on him, seeping its way inside. Too easy, too easy to just give in to Kronos -- completely. To avoid the careful phrasings, the deadly games, the careful manipulations of power and submission. He was good at it -- or had been once. But there had never been much else at stake beside himself -- his survival. Bodily survival. If that were all he had to worry about now, there would be no problem either.

But it wasn't. After five millennia Methos had finally found something that meant more to him than himself -- and having sought so long for the prize -- for his prize -- he was determined not to lose it again -- or at least not the hope of it being in his grasp once more, however briefly.

A drug. An addiction. He had avoided such dependencies in the past but now he craved the one he had made for himself. There was only one source and it might be denied him forever but it was still there. Would remain there if it took the last drop of blood, the last breath, the last ounce of will Methos possessed to keep it there.

For the briefest of moments he allowed himself to remember the feel of a different set of lips against his own. Not the harsh cruel demands of Kronos' mouth, but softness, the wondering joy that shone in MacLeod's dark eyes every time he kissed Methos. The Highlander's taste was as sharp and real as the dark, mechanical scents round him. The feel of MacLeod's body, strong and supple and warm, worked to displace the chill air. The feel of Mac inside him, filling him, possessing him without trying to own him was enough to make his eyes burn and his stomach clench in a want and need that Kronos would never understand, and never be able to replace.

Anything else Kronos wanted from him he could have. Methos would give it without compunction or regret or reservation. MacLeod had given Methos something small and precious that could not be stolen or broken. A small part of himself -- a tiny new-made Methos that had no past, no sins, and no reason to exist other than at one time, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had willed it so. Future rejections or denials could not undo it. Kronos' manipulations could not destroy it.

Nothing else had any meaning. Securing that small prize Methos rose and went to seek his brother, the faintest, darkest smile on his lips. The rules were about to be rewritten in his relationship with Kronos.

************

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

Sheer pleasure coursed through Methos, drawing fire through his blood and a heaviness in his loins. Half-waking, he felt his lover's mouth on him, greedily suckling, stroking him to an aching hardness that was all pleasure. Mac's mouth covered him with warmth and a gentle moistness, fingers seeking his chest to rub at his nipples. His body arched into the demanding mouth, thrusts uncontrollable as his hips were raised and he reached out to wrap his fingers in the thick satin of Mac's hair to gentle him. His fingers encountered not the Highlander's thick mane, however, but the short-cropped hair of another and he recovered his disappointment and anger at being beguiled by his own desires before Kronos realized he had awakened. Easier to mask his anger as his brother expertly applied his mouth again and drove Methos to orgasm. Kronos' chuckle was lost in the groan that escaped Methos as his body succumbed to his ministrations. The close cropped head dropped again to taste his brother's submission, smile threatening to tear his face as he lapped hungrily at the warm seed to the accompaniment of Methos' moans. Kronos thought the sounds indicative of his brother's passion but Methos knew better.

"Good morning, brother," Kronos said, drawing himself up along Methos' body to savage him with a kiss as his body shuddered to completion. Methos met him, the source of his anger and disappointment of no concern to Kronos and his brother laughed against his mouth as Methos twisted, strength masterfully shoving Kronos onto his back so he could straddle the other man's hips. Kronos was as naked as he was; compact body sprawled under him in delight.

Methos caught his wrists; forcing them above Kronos' head and leaning his weight into the grip before diving down to plunder Kronos' mouth brutally with his own. He shoved all his memories of Mac's caresses deep within and took out his rage at his own betraying psyche on Kronos. Kronos seemed be delighted, possibly even a bit wary at the sudden savagery and hopefully laying it along the marks indicating that Methos had, indeed, returned to the horsemen in full force.

"What's the matter, Methos? Didn't you like my wake up call?" Kronos said when Methos pulled back, tasting blood, the crimson swell dyeing Kronos lips.

"I didn't set one," Methos said evenly, feral smile covering his own mouth as he felt Kronos' cock stir beneath him, roused by the turnabout, by the look on Methos' face.

"Would you prefer to sleep in? Shall we put Caspian off for another day?" Kronos offered and pressed upward, eyes narrowing when Methos pressed back, refusing to release him.

"Three thousand years has improved your manners not at all, Kronos," Methos snarled, and shifted, quick as a cat, moving his knees to part Kronos' thighs then put his weight on them, pinning his brother to the bed. He bent his head to find a nipple and bit, hard enough to elicit a yelp of angry surprise from Kronos and the other man struggled. Methos twisted at his wrists, slender hands stronger than they looked and Kronos hissed, eyes glittering at the savage satisfaction on Methos' face at causing him pain.

"Be careful how far you press this game, brother," Kronos hissed, suddenly wary. His eyes darted to the bedside table where his sword lay indolently against the wood, his long-hilted dagger on top.

"You used to be better at taking what you dished out, brother," Methos said harshly and bent his head again to bite and Kronos roared as he drew blood. The well-muscled body bucked, nearly dislodging Methos but he shifted again, driving his knees down onto the thighs forcibly. Awkward with the spring of the mattress below them to bounce him back and he nearly lost his grip on Kronos wrists.

Kronos took the momentary unbalance and arched his spine, twisting. Methos' left knee slipped off his thigh and Kronos drove his own knee into Methos side and back, dislodging him. Methos hissed as both of them dove for the dagger, hands closing over it together and fighting for control. Bodies tangled together, the blade sharp enough to cut at the slightest pass, the sheets were stained here and there with crimson streaks until Methos drove his elbow into Kronos jaw, knocking him off the bed and onto the floor -- dagger held in his hands and face set in fury. Methos' eyes glittered as he moved, getting one foot under him, then swearing as Kronos dove for his sword. Twisting, Methos reached for his own only to find a steel hand enclosing his ankle, yanking him back and he turned again, breath catching at the sharp steel leveled at his belly.

Kronos stared down at his brother, his own breathing coming in short, harsh gasps. He felt his lips curve, not releasing his grip on Methos' ankle as he let the sword point press into the flat, muscled stomach, drawing yet more blood. Methos' eyes narrowed but he made no sound. _Gods...you are a thing of beauty, my brother,_ Kronos thought in a rare appreciation for aesthetic pleasures. Exertion and anger flushed Methos' skin, prompted by the proximity of steel and Kronos' sweating body. For one brief moment Kronos saw Methos as he had been three thousand years ago, the silken hair cast long, the lean hard body sweat drenched and taut, ready for him. He had never understood Methos' need to be forced into yielding -- but it was a game the older Immortal had never surrendered -- even when his cries of pleasure would disturb the whole camp as he gave into Kronos' affections. Something in Methos had always demanded he be tamed -- and he rode the razor's edge still -- pressing Kronos to his limits, to the verge of taking his head time and again -- daring him to do so and never for one moment doubting that Kronos was capable of it.

But Kronos always found the control not to -- always held back in that last instant. There would be punishment for pushing him and Methos seemed to crave that as well. Pleasurable in many ways but Kronos never failed to make sure Methos knew he was being punished -- just as Methos had often punished him. But rarely with pain. No, Methos' punishments could be harsher. He would deny Kronos any sport, submitting like one of the slaves, allowing Kronos to do what he would with no participation whatsoever and no sound. Such a lack of response inevitably sent Kronos into a rage and Methos would emerge battered and bloodied and smiling at his success in making his brother lose such complete control.

He was playing the same game now and Kronos could already feel his blood burning in anger. But he had learned many things since then and Methos might be surprised to find patience among them. So, Methos wanted to be forced. But punishment meant bending him to Kronos' will and pleasures. Kronos smiled and saw the wary look in the hazel eyes. He slid the tip of the sword up along the glistening skin, gently, careful not to break the flesh, until the point rested under Methos' chin. Then he followed the blade, turning it so it lay crosswise against the ivory column as his body covered his brother's. One hand went out to free the knife and set it aside.

"Then I apologize for waking you so, Brother," Kronos said softly and kissed him, gently -- coaxing him rather than forcing him. Teasing the moist lips apart and exploring the hesitantly yielded interior slowly. His hands began to stroke, to pleasure, never a rough movement. One thigh worked its way cautiously between Methos' legs as Kronos explored his body tenderly. "Is this how you prefer your lovers now, Methos?" Kronos murmured and seemed not to notice when Methos' breath caught. _Is this how your Highlander tames you, brother...with this...gentleness...?_ Kronos wondered, inwardly scoffing at the idea but he had no doubt that this was how MacLeod made love to the man below him.

He could feel the responses building despite Methos' efforts to stop them. His brother was hard; stomach muscles fluttering as Kronos pressed gentle nips to the sensitive flesh under his ear. His fingers twined with Methos' as he nudged the thighs further apart then bent his head to renew the efforts he had begun earlier, stroking himself to hardness before reaching under to catch the thighs and lift them. His tongued danced around the turgid shaft and below. His smile became more calculating as Methos clutched at the linens, eyes slightly wild and body beginning to strain upward and into the gentle assault. Kronos rocked against him and was rewarded with a moan -- the first sound Methos had made since losing their wrestling match. Wetting his fingers he pressed and felt the body tighten further, heard the sudden inrush of air as Methos gasped. The body was surrendering to him -- to his touch -- in a way Kronos had never experienced before. He preferred Methos wild and fighting, but he could see where the sudden pliancy might appeal to a milksop such as MacLeod.

There was no protest as Kronos hooked his arms under Methos' knees, drawing him close, cock pressed against the tight opening. Steel gray eyes locked with glazed hazel ones as he pressed his entry. Restlessness overtook the slender body then a certain denial stroked across the flushed face. Kronos grinned. He had chosen rightly, Methos was just now realizing he was yielding without protest, without demands -- asking for it as he had never done before without coercion.

Now Methos was too far lost to the demands of his body to deny them. A moan escaped the parted lips as Kronos gentled his way inside the hot body, hissing as the deep muscles clenched around him. Powerful legs locked around his waist and dug into his buttocks, drawing Kronos deeper. Another moan of protest as Kronos pulled back, then in again, setting a slower rhythm than was his wont. Kronos kept the satisfied smile from his face as he braced his hands on either side of the writhing body, but inside his anger burned again. These responses belonged to MacLeod -- no doubt it was he Methos now pretended was taking him so thoroughly. MacLeod garnering every nuance of passion from the slender form when Kronos had always had to fight Methos every inch of the way.

_Damn you, Methos...!_ His innards raged as he reached the peak of sensation, his spine arching into the body clamped around his as he drove his seed into the familiar warmth. Methos arched into the sudden harsh pumping and Kronos stroked him with a firm grip until the body shuddered and surrendered, warmth spilling over his hand. He reached for the dagger, gasping harshly, eyes glittering with hatred as he saw the lips unconsciously form a name that was not Kronos. With Methos still in the thrall of his orgasm, Kronos drove the blade deep into Methos' chest with a scream of rage and saw once more that smile of victory on the perfect mouth as Methos died, spilling the last of his fill over Kronos' hands.

With a snarl of rage, Kronos pulled his body free of the lax, dead embrace of his lover. His Brother. Little of the furniture survived his temper and when that was done he went back to the body, staring at the bloodied knife. Seeing the deeply ingrained stains on the hilt. His sword was in his hand again in an instant, blade laid across the unprotected throat. *Mine! He is mine!* Some dark part of his soul screamed in protest and he was pressed, pressed to swear that if Methos could not be his body and soul, he would be no one's. Kronos had never had to compete for Methos' respect, his loyalty, his *affections*, for hell's sake, before. Not even truly with the witch. She had been a diversion, a punishment of sorts -- a reminder to Methos of the life he'd led before meeting Kronos.

Kronos had come to believe his life and purpose had begun on his first violent meeting with the golden eyed, sharp-witted, sensuous man now dead at Kronos' whim. Too lose him to the self-righteous, cow-eyed, infant child of the thrice-cursed highlands was too much. Kronos wanted his brother back. His lover -- the other half of his twisted soul. There was only one way to do it -- one way to accomplish it and it meant he would have to outthink Methos every step of the way. The Highlander would die and Kronos would make Methos watch it.

Methos would pay for his betrayal. Set on his course, Kronos calmed and smiled and pulled the blade free of his lover's chest. Then he reversed it so it cut into his palm, letting his blood and Methos' mingle on the blade as he waited. Methos would pay for his betrayal and his deceptions and his lies -- - beginning now. He fingered the long hilt, then spread the muscled thighs and waited....

And Methos would never know Kronos was aware of his treachery until the Highlander's head fell at his feet.

********

A pounding on the door caused a bellow from Kronos and Silas entered, unfazed by either his leader's expression or volume. Kronos stood naked in the center of the room, his gaze shifting toward the bathroom. Silas' eyes followed Kronos' as Methos emerged. He, at least, had managed to slip into jeans, but they lay open, the zipper unclosed and the nest of dark curls springing through the fly. Watery rivulets of crimson stains and fading bruises marked the pale skin, the denim damp and the towel Methos wiped his face with also stained brown and scarlet.

Silas seemed to think the scene neither strange nor disgusting. Why should he when he'd partaken of both men in various settings over their centuries together? He'd known as soon as he saw Kronos and Methos in the wood that the span of years, the distance, and lifetimes had changed nothing between them. The possessive way Kronos' hand had massaged the long, graceful arch of Methos' neck while they talked around their dinner in the suite the night before, spoke of passions not forgotten. The long glances the green-brown eyes had cast across the room when unaware of Silas' scrutiny. Those two belonged together and the fates had reunited them. It was good.

"You had a message delivered," Silas informed them but Kronos primarily. "They brought it to me so as not to disturb you. MacLeod and the witch are on their way here. They should arrive tomorrow."

Kronos grinned speculatively. "Will they now?" he said, cutting his gaze toward Methos. Neither shock nor surprise showed on the sharp features but the hazel eyes had narrowed even as Methos lounged casually back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"We should waste no time in getting to Caspian, then, and move on to Bordeaux," Methos said evenly and Kronos nodded.

"Silas, see to a car for us - we will be leaving within the hour," Kronos said and picked up his jeans from the bed as the giant left them. Kronos put his pants on, waiting until he was gone before speaking. "You don't want to wait and say hello to your old friend and ex-lover?" he asked slyly, Methos unsure which label referred to who.

"I doubt Cassandra and I have anything pleasant to say to one another," Methos said as Kronos approached him.

"Probably not. You should have killed her then, Methos. You and Silas...both with weaknesses for helpless things. Only she is not so helpless now, is she Methos? In fact, she's downright dangerous. Turning your...friend...against you like that-spreading lies. And after all the kindnesses you showed her, too," Kronos said tragically. His hand skimmed along the tight muscles of Methos' chest as he slipped behind him. Methos did nothing but adjust his stance so Kronos could press close, eyes watching the hand as it skimmed along his pectorals to brush across his nipple. "And now she's taken your place in MacLeod's affections. In his bed as well, no doubt," Kronos whispered against his throat. "He's a fool, your Highlander, to let you go so easily."

Methos forced himself not to tense as Kronos' hand sought lower, rough fingers slipping through the damp hairs at his groin. The thin lips were pressed against his throat and he turned into the nuzzling mouth.

"I will never throw you over for some doe-eyed slut, brother," Kronos said. "I keep what is mine and am not so easily dissuaded from what I want. And I don't give a damn about your past."

_You are my past...and my future is as dead as I am._ Methos thought and leaned against him, pressing his groin into the caress of the strong hand. He turned his head to capture the waiting mouth -- silencing Kronos and his own small cry of protest at MacLeod's betrayal. It didn't matter that he had engineered that hatred - it still cut deep.

******

BORDEAUX, FRANCE

Camelot. Methos had nearly laughed hysterically at Kronos' impassioned comparison. But the abandoned submarine base had its charms, if you were in to early dungeon décor. And then Methos had found another reason to fight hysteria as he realized that Kronos might -- just might -- actually have a chance at dominating the world. His brother had not spent his centuries idly and his grasp of the mechanics and potentials both of modern electronics and biological devastation drove a core of ice through Methos he could feel in his bowels. Kronos had the mechanism -- now all he needed was a plan -- and he had Methos.

And plan Methos did, layers upon layers of plots and twists, some of which he told Kronos -- enough to make them plausible, even workable -- the underlying plots as twisty and confusing as Kronos' mind. Some were complicated, some beautifully simple -- presented and modified with as much passion as Methos could summon, only to have them torn apart by some detail -- details he'd deliberately missed. The delays buying him time, buying MacLeod time, until they had the basics.

Methos was the first to notice that the Four Horsemen were not quite as solid as they'd once been -- Kronos too involved in his schemes to notice, Silas too slow, and Caspian too easily distracted -- and restless. His years of captivity had left him even more a psychopath than Methos remembered. Silas was his favorite target when his frustrations boiled over -- and that was nearly every hour on the hour. The confinement was no doubt worse for him than any of them -- but Kronos was adamant that they stay at the base save for brief jaunts for supplies. No tourist side trips, no whoring and little freedom. His frustrations grew and Methos let them -- not interfering as he once had in the sudden violent arguments Caspian and Silas were prone to. Kronos stopped them when he caught them at it, looking to Methos for support. Methos gave it, but only when asked. Kronos knew the defiance for what it was and Methos' punishments mounted nightly.

Even at night Kronos demanded they sleep in the same chamber -- the only one that had heat supplied from the portable generator in the labs, rather than the rough braziers that burned through the base. Once, such an arrangement had been as common as not when the Horsemen were moving across the deserts. Sleeping together making the erection of campsites quick work and providing them with a measure of security -- each watching the other's backs.

Now it was from lack of trust that Kronos kept them together. Four adequately comfortable pallets on the concrete floor, small chests for what few belongings any of them had brought with them. But despite the fourth pallet it was made obvious on their first night together that Kronos had no intention of sleeping alone.

Methos made no protest when Kronos climbed under the blankets with him, almost welcoming the hot body against the chill air in the darkened base. Sleep, however, was not on Kronos' mind particularly. Three millennia ago Methos had no embarrassment in partaking of Kronos' attentions in front of the others -- Silas and Caspian had then had diversions of their own. But there were no slaves in this new Camelot and if Kronos cared at all about the tensions he might be raising as he took his pleasures noisily, he gave no sign. That first night Methos was witness to Caspian's immediate answer to the rutting taking place in front of him as his once captain mounted his lieutenant. Caspian, failing to come to orgasm at his own hand as Kronos did, cast harsh black eyes on Methos' face throughout his observation. Caspian's expression was both frustrated and calculating when Kronos hauled his lover down beside him and trapped the slender body with arms and legs wrapped around Methos in a loose embrace. Silas, the ox, could sleep through anything. Methos got little sleep at all and neither did Caspian, his moans audible as he tried again and again to bring about his own release.

Caspian was unlikely to approach Silas and while Kronos would have said yes without hesitation, Caspian had a true aversion to being submissive in any form, especially sex.

And there was the matter of old debts....

Methos had no more trust for Caspian than he did Kronos -- less actually. The workings of Kronos' mind, at least Methos had some understanding of -- some respect for. But Caspian was volatile and unpredictable. He neither thought nor planned, too easily giving in to whatever passions drove at him -- whatever demons had been birthed in his twisted soul three thousand years before.

Nor would Kronos interfere in whatever little power plays were enacted until someone was close to losing their head. The pack mentality ruled, Methos and Caspian vying for the Beta position to Kronos' Alpha. Silas would ever be the follower, but Caspian had long been second to Kronos before Methos arrived -- now he wanted that position back. They had fought this battle before with Caspian the loser, but he was as aware as Kronos that Methos had long been away from their common games. Testing the solidarity of Methos position was not just an option -- it was an imperative.

The first challenge came in the showers Kronos had managed to rig -- nothing fancy -- just the stripped down fixtures of the base's original communal baths. The water was frigid, the generator needed for the environmental controls in the labs and not for the sybaritic pleasures of the Horseman. Methos would take his turn early, more to have a few moments of solitude than for any heightened sense of hygiene. But he was not a fool and Caspian's advances were becoming bolder. Third day at the base and Methos felt another's approach in the gray pre-dawn hours. He turned to see Caspian watching him -- the leer on his face obvious and threatening. Methos never dropped his gaze as the darker man approached, hands already rubbing at his bared crotch, cock swollen and ready. Then stopping as Methos turned to face him -- revealing the slender blade he'd strapped to his thigh, fingertips resting lightly on the hilt. It had been obscured by his body's profile, remaining unobserved by Caspian upon entering the showers.

Methos brushed past him, danced the edge again. "Make sure you take full advantage of the cold water, brother," he said softly, making eye contact -- challenge offered, met and put down in one phrasing.

But it was only the first and Caspian sulked throughout the day as the four of them worked on Kronos and Methos' plans, assembling the electronic parts for the small deadly devices needed to bring Kronos' intentions to reality. At the end of it, Methos was both bored and tense, seeking his bed for at least some small amount of rest before Kronos came to make his nightly demands. It was an indicator of his fatigue that he actually allowed himself to slumber, waking as a body pressed close to his, then grabbed at him -- hand covering his mouth as a second wrenched his arm up and back. A long body, over muscled but less controlled, covered his.

"Have you forgotten that brothers share?" Caspian chuckled into his ear as he pressed his thigh between Methos'. Breathing was difficult -- and Caspian would have no compunctions about taking Methos conscious or unconscious, living or dead. Hard flesh probed and sought, already pumping against Methos' bare skin, flesh sticking wetly to flesh. He relaxed and pressed back against Caspian with a moan and heard the laughter as Caspian released his tight grip across Methos' mouth and nose. Methos took the first few seconds to drag air into his lungs then rubbed his buttocks against his brother's erection and started to roll onto his belly. Caspian following with a hiss of anticipated pleasure, shifted, finger seeking entry.

Then yelped in pain as Methos surged upward, smashing the back of his head into Caspian's face and twisting, that same deadly dagger drawn as the larger man was shoved back and down, Methos' knee dropping heavily against his stomach and remaining to trap one arm and the body. Fingers dragged at Caspian's hair, forcing him to meet the cold glitter in the gold-green eyes, the dagger poised at the base of Caspian's cock to press into the single swollen sac of glands, the other truncated and centuries lost.

"No. Brothers ask!" Methos hissed, leaning in. "And I don't recall saying yes. I seem to have lost my other trophy along the way, Caspian -- care to surrender another?" The blade pricked and Caspian snarled, writhing under the iron grip. "You want to be fucked, little brother -- talk to Kronos. You want to fuck something, I suggest you be nicer to Silas -- or his monkeys. You want to change your sex -- come back and see *me*. Now I've asked. I won't do so again," Methos added, lips close to the tight mouth.

He pulled away and then lay back down -- forcing relaxation into his body while his insides tightened in readiness. Caspian lay where he was for a few moments then got up and stalked away.

The tension eased outward and Methos nearly jumped out of his skin, rising and twisting when a hand touched his arm and found Kronos watching him with amusement on his face. "Will I have to ask as well, brother?" Kronos questioned, sliding a hand over his flank.

"You might," Methos snarled.

"Make me," Kronos challenged not surprised when Methos did.

***********

"Hello?"

Methos' breath caught for a brief moment. Just the sound of that voice shaking his resolve -- turning the madness he'd embraced into the horror it was rather than an inevitability.

"Elysium church. Thirty minutes. Come alone." There was more he wanted to say, needed to say and he shut the phone off before he could give in to the weakness. Before he could beg for MacLeod's help. His forgiveness. His touch. He'd forfeited the right for these things when he'd walked into Kronos' arms.

His excuses were taken. Kronos barely acknowledging his request now that the bomb was set and he was preparing the next step of his plan -- Methos' plan.

The sanctuary of Holy Ground had never seemed quite so appealing as Methos waited, tensing when he felt the approach of an Immortal-and only one. He sat suddenly, not sure his legs would hold him up and he was right when MacLeod presented a stony faced visage and came no closer to him than was necessary to speak without shouting.

Methos had not meant for their conversation to include explanations but Mac demanded them and Methos answered. Some masochistic part of him wanting to have the Highlander say, "Yes, I understand." Not to agree only to...accept. He had known it was impossible. He had planned it that way -- and he was Methos, the master strategist. Why should it surprise him that Mac should fall as easily for his deceits as Kronos had -- Kronos whose entire life was made up with deceptions, treachery and evil.

 

Then a miracle happened and Methos was unprepared. Mac asked him to go with him to defuse the bomb -- and seemed to expect he would do so. Methos was forced to look down to avoid the expectation in the dark eyes -- unable to bear the disappointment he knew would follow.

"I go up against Kronos and I lose," he said evenly, hating the words. Hating the weakness it forced upon him, the display of cowardice that MacLeod would never understand -- but would believe.

"Going with the winner," Mac said, tone so full of loathing and disgust Methos had to still the desire to wipe at his skin as if he were covered in some palpable filth.

"Bright boy," he managed.

"Don't do this, Methos," Mac said, almost a plea but his pride made it more of a demand.

"It's already done, MacLeod. White, then black, then red. And get Cassandra out of here. Kronos won't let her escape him again," he cautioned.

MacLeod's face twisted as if he were going to say something else, then turned away, shoulders set and never a backward glance.

Methos watched him, praying MacLeod would heed his warning and spirit Cassandra away -- but it was unlikely. He suspected too much and unless Methos found a permanent solution and quickly, there would be nothing he could do to keep Mac from pursuing Kronos to one of their deaths.

Allies would have been nice, but there were none. He had ever been a favorite of Silas' but the big man enjoyed the companionship and camaraderie of his "Brothers." His needs were simple and straightforward. Delaying as long as possible Methos returned to the base to find Kronos waiting for him, a genial smile on his face as he lounged indolently in a chair.

"Your bomb did not go off, Methos. Not much of a plan, was it?"

"It makes no difference. We move on to the next step-"

Kronos got to his feet and advanced, smiling more broadly when Methos did not yield his ground. "Did MacLeod take your warning well?"

Methos kept his breathing even, but his stomach clenched tightly. Had Kronos been following him?

"I know you better than you know yourself, brother," Kronos said slipping an arm around Methos' shoulders, lips pressed close to his ear. "Does he well and truly hate you now? Have you cast him aside forever? Driven him away? I thought that might be your plan -- I liked mine better. I want MacLeod to come here. But you knew that already, didn't you, Methos? It's why you've been trying so hard to keep him away." He was still smiling, but it had changed and Methos grew instantly wary but did not resist when Kronos reached up to ease his coat off his shoulders then reach inside the folds and relieve him of his sword. "My dearest brother, that's what makes you my perfect right arm," Kronos said casually, making a show of testing the level and balance of the blade before reversing his grip on the hilt. "We think alike. We always have. Now we have a guest -- someone MacLeod still cares about. She's been asking for you." Kronos asked, bringing Methos' blade up to its owner's throat.

Methos leaned in to the steel, letting his own smile show. "Well, then, we should prepare for MacLeod to come here."

Kronos laughed and pressed him back, sword point lowering to mid chest as he forced Methos against the wall, his smile growing colder. "I already have."

Pressed against the wall, Methos fought to put them on equal mental ground again, tracking Kronos' thinking desperately. "Did you send Caspian or Silas?"

All the time part of him cursed the fact that he'd have to deny the Scotsman again; doubting he had the strength it would take. That part controlling his heart leapt with joy at the chance to gaze in the depths of the earth brown eyes he yearned to drown in once more.

Kronos chuckled in surprise and appreciation. "Both," he said and then the smile was gone. Without another word or any warning he reversed his grip on the sword and struck Methos across the face with enough force to drive him to his knees. "Which leaves me to deal with you," Kronos said harshly, crushing Methos' hopes as quickly as he'd raised them.

Methos rolled as the booted foot came at him, catching the kick along his hip rather than his ribs, but Kronos had no intention of letting him evade his punishment. He crouched beside Methos, dropping his knee sharply against the heaving chest and held him.

"I am extremely disappointed in you, brother. There was a time when I thought only Caspian thought with his cock, but you seem to have the same problem. Did you really think I believed you would abandon MacLeod -- knowing his penchant for noble causes? You think I don't know it's him you think of, feel, smell and taste every time I touch you? I share with my brothers, not with anyone else!" His fingers twisted in Methos' shirt, dragging him to his feet and slamming him against the wall again with enough force to nearly render Methos unconscious. The strong fingers dug into Methos' hair, yanking his head back, a knee pressed between his thighs and driven upward with enough force to drag a sharp cry from the other Immortal.

"It would seem three thousand years has been long enough for you to forget how we first met -- and how you had to earn the right to call yourself a Horseman," Kronos snarled. "Shall I begin your lessons anew, Methos? Perhaps some quality time spent with Caspian will sharpen your memory. If I had planned a little better I'd have had them bring MacLeod back alive and show him how quickly you learn."

Another blow across his face sent Methos reeling against the high rail overlooking the open boat bay below, blood dripping to make a barely noticeable splash against the black water. Kronos fists drove into his back between his shoulder blades, almost sending him tumbling over the rail. He clung fiercely to the metal only to gag and choke as the steel sinews of Kronos' arm snaked around his throat, pressing him more firmly against the rail

"He won't be coming to save you, Methos," Kronos rasped in his ear. "And you have failed miserably at saving him. But with him dead, I have no more need for the witch-so maybe you can save someone after all -- again. How ironic that the one you care the least about, the one who probably hates you most of all, is the only one you will be able to save," Kronos said and released him. Allowing Methos to drop to all fours as he gasped for breath.

Kronos crouched in front of him, laying Methos' sword and the keys to Cassandra's cell on the floor in front of him casually. He grasped the dark hair again and jerked Methos' head up to meet the defiance in the hazel eyes.

"Do your good deed in memory of your lover, Methos. Spend some time remembering his taste and feel. I have an errand to run -- a message to deliver to the leaders of Bordeaux -- I need to make sure they understand they shouldn't drink the water. Because when I come for you -- and it won't be long -- we will begin your lessons again," Kronos said and struck him once more, opening a gash in his cheek and sending him sprawling sideways. Methos curled up but not in time to avoid the near bone shattering kick to his groin. Kronos left him them, nearly insensate and gasping.

Methos' watering eyes fixed on the sword just outside his current reach, darkness closing over his mind as he realized Kronos had left it deliberately. Not because he thought Methos no threat with steel, but because the hilt still bore traces of old blood -- a reminder of things that had been -- A promise of things to come.

***********

"Don't expect rescue from MacLeod," Methos said, fingers already working the keys into the lock. "He's dead." Cassandra stared at him in shock and surprise, her expression almost comical as he opened the door and stepped back.

"You're lying," she hissed, pressing herself against the bars -- getting as far away from him as possible.

"Don't be more of a fool that you already are, Cassandra. Get out. Kronos has no more use for you alive and unharmed. Your worth as bait for MacLeod is at an end," Methos snapped, hardly able to believe he could talk about Mac's death so dispassionately. His own rage and despair were burning close to the surface and Cassandra would be an easy enough target.

Except Mac had cared for her. Possibly even loved her once -- then, now. It made no difference any longer. It was enough to pay for her freedom. One last gesture of life in memory of his love's existence before he hurled himself headlong into Kronos' nightmares.

He stepped back further, clearing the way for her. "Unless you have some suicidal desire to be a plaything for Silas or Caspian, take the high road, woman," he said evenly.

She took a step forward, then another, emerging from her cell cautiously. "His death is on your hands," she said as she cleared her prison.

Methos remained silent but his fingers tightened on his sword hilt. Cassandra saw it for the warning it was and sidled away only to stop as Kronos' bellow of rage rang through the base. Footsteps rang on the metal stairs and Methos and Cassandra stared upward to see Kronos and Silas descending.

...And Silas. It took a moment for Methos to grasp the fact that Caspian was not with them. That there was no third presence to be felt.

"Two of you and he still gets away!" Kronos was livid, Silas hanging back lest the anger be turned on him.

"I will go look for him -- " Silas said then stopped before he ran into Kronos.

"You lied. He's alive!" Cassandra taunted.

_Couldn't have said it better,_ Methos thought but pulled his sword up, for one brief moment feeling as a newborn child might -- unsullied, washed clean -- brand new. In the next moment he strengthened his resolve to keep his lies the truth. Kronos wouldn't give up on MacLeod yet. Not unless Methos made the choice for him -- permanently.

He thought it impossible that he could keep his thoughts out of his expression. MacLeod lived! They'd failed. Nothing mattered any longer, yet the wheels of their regrouping already turned at incredible speed and he wasn't sure he had the strength or will to slow them down. He'd just given his very life over to Kronos, and believing his lover dead, had cared little for his fate. What did the rest matter? But the spark of life...of living that Mac had offered him still dangled like a golden carrot. The other half of his soul still breathed and the gods had proven it in their fickleness. A spark of hope flared slightly in its bank of cold ashes.

He never thought for a moment that just because the Highlander lived, that their moment in the sun could shine again. He'd made sure of that. When all else swirled in a myriad of murky uncertainty, he'd ensured the hatred of his beloved. Of that much he was certain. But something inside Methos clawed its way to the surface, grasping at MacLeod's code of chivalry and justice...of life, before sinking again for the third time. If he didn't move now...redeem some small portion of himself, he had no doubt he would never see that flame again. The future would be Kronos' indeed.

"Get out," he murmured and Cassandra heard him, edging away again as Kronos resumed his slow advance.

"Yes, Cassandra, get out," Kronos said coldly. "I have no use for you at all any longer -- but you..." His blade came up to point at Methos. "He'll come for you. Wonder what he'll find?"

"Go..." Methos hissed once more at Cassandra and heard her move, never letting his eyes stray from Kronos' face.

"It would seem that Methos and I have some ground rules left to lay..." Kronos purred to Silas and the giant frowned but moved as Kronos did to flank Methos. Punishment for transgressions made sense to Silas -- even when he wasn't sure what they were.

Kronos made sure Methos could not try for the stairs and Silas blocked the escape route Cassandra had taken. Trapped between them Methos fought and more blood than his own ended up slicking the floor before he was pinned to the cell, Silas' meaty hands gripping his wrists until his hands lost all feeling and Kronos' long dagger buried in his stomach just above the waistband of his jeans.

With Silas holding him and weakened by blood loss and pain, Methos quit fighting. Kronos didn't want his head -- not yet. But he wanted. Oh, gods, yes -- he wanted vengeance. He wanted payment in pain and blood for Methos' deceptions -- for his deceit -- his infidelity. Kronos stepped away; gathering up ropes and binding Methos spread-eagled against the bars before pulling his knife out.

"Cassandra will find the Highlander for us, Silas," Kronos said, almost calmly. "Go and wait for them. Let me know when they arrive."

The quiet tone motivated Silas far more than a threat or shout could do and he moved away, casting one look at Methos in regret. Not for what was to happen, but that Methos had been foolish enough to provoke Kronos beyond reason.

"It always comes back to us -- to we two, does it not, Methos?" Kronos said almost sadly, trailing the bloodied tip of his dagger along Methos' jaw. "Or it should have. We are meant to be together -- from the start. Can't you see that? Tell me you care nothing for this infant highland boy. Tell me you will be my brother, by right arm -- mine, until the end of time," the tone was almost pleading as Kronos leaned in close, his breath warming Methos' cheek.

Death lay in that soft caress of air. Kronos would not let him live to betray him again -- but he wanted to. Methos could smell the desire -- the need in the other man -- the same way he could smell the dank, musty air. He had never bothered to ask why Kronos was determined that Methos remained with him -- why after centuries, Kronos would be willing to even pretend to trust him when he showed no such consideration for anyone else.

A word and Methos might escape the worst of Kronos' anger. A lie and Kronos would believe him -- again.

And then what? Start this damnable dance over?

"No."

One word. Yes or no decided his fate and Methos knew he had pushed Kronos across the line for the last time. His head was forfeit but not immediately and he made no effort to hide the scream of agony as Kronos' dagger plunged into his shoulder, ripping downward through his shirt and across his breast. The second cut caught him across the cheek even as Kronos ripped at the snap on his jeans, tearing the zipper and the fabric. His sword was plunged into the left pants leg to rip the denim, the backside of the blade's edge leaving a long furrow of fire along Methos' leg.

There was no finesse as Kronos stripped him, cut the clothing from him and left him naked and bleeding. "What you are so willing to give to your Scotsman I will take as has always been my right!" Kronos snarled, opening his own jeans to pull out his cock and rubbing it quickly to attention. "You may have wanted his gentle touches, Methos. But it is mine you will remember for the rest of your very short life."

An arm snaked around his waist, jerking him forward almost more than his bonds would allow. The grip so strong he felt his ribs begin to creak as pain shot up his spine and buried itself in his brain. The ropes tore at his wrists and ankles as Kronos braced one booted foot against the bars, wedging his knee behind Methos at the small of his back, forcing his pelvis forward. Kronos held up his dagger in front of the pain-glazed eyes. "Remember this lover, Methos?" Kronos demanded. His hand squeezed around the blade until blood ran. "Meet a new one -- " Kronos hissed and reversed his grip, presenting the bloodied blade, face contorted in rage and anticipation. And despair? Methos could not be sure -- would never know after that moment passed from confusion and pain to pain alone. Then there was nothing but pain and the sound of his own screams deafening him and drowning out all thought -- all awareness -- and severing Methos from his one last longing claim to any hope at all.

**************

Silas' warning had been timely -- MacLeod was on his way but Cassandra had not yet surfaced. She would though. Kronos had no doubts at all about that. She would want to see for herself the bodies. More fool she for thinking it would be the bodies she hoped for -- well, one might be. A minute, maybe less, and Kronos would hold all the cards his little drama demanded. He turned back to his former "Brother," To the man he called both lover and slave now. Methos was still gasping to quell his pain; the dark head bent forward, muscles spasming throughout the slender bloodied frame. "Did you hear that, Methos? Your lover is close -- sorry, ex-lover. Your hero. I will have to test his heroism -- hate for him not be worthy of you. One life against thousands. Which will he choose? Can you guess? Will he think you are worth saving? Or is he here because I am worth killing? Trying to kill?" Gentle fingers lifted the captive's chin, Kronos smiling at his handiwork on the ruin of the face. "Don't you want to try and save him? Make me an offer, Methos. One I can't refuse."

"Everything...anything..." The whisper was so soft, Kronos had to lean in to hear it and then kissed the bloodied mouth carefully, catching the near sob his slave offered.

"Too little, too late, Methos," Kronos said. "What would MacLeod think if he heard that, I wonder? But he won't. It will be our secret -- to our graves," Kronos said and fit the twisted and knotted kerchief between the swollen lips and past the teeth. Tying it carefully and tightly enough to elicit another whimper. His hands went still at the back of Methos' head as another Immortal's presence made itself known.

"He's heeerrrreeee!" Kronos laughed and set his stage, letting the head drop back down as he pressed the tip of his knife into a gash that began at the base of Methos' throat and dragged it downward. He watched in never ending fascination as blood welled into the wound and traveled to mingle with the other fluids and stains now dyeing the ivory skin.

"Kronos!"

The smile on Kronos' face had stopped lesser men in their tracks. But MacLeod seemed oblivious to either the implication or the power as he came down the steps, body tightly controlled, handsome face twisted in an anger and despair that warmed Kronos' heart. He stopped a few feet from them when Kronos idly pressed the flat of his blade against the unprotected throat of his captive.

"Is this what you expected to see, Highlander? Did you come to my Camelot like Arthur on his white charger, expecting to save the witch? Well, you're too late.Our own Galahad here has already seen to that and look what his reward is..."He stepped back to reveal the full extent of his workmanship. The tortures had all been recent...the gashes and cuts and bruises unhealed. Not one inch of Methos' body remained undamaged.MacLeod felt nausea rise in his stomach as the slender body moved. Methos was neither dead nor unconscious, but he was gagged. The gag tied as tightly as the bonds securing his wrists to the stanchions, ropes cutting into the thin flesh of his wrists and ankles nearly to the bone. "Our Methos has stamina...he does have that..." Kronos purred catching the dark head and yanking it back to expose his face. A twin cut to the gash permanently marring Kronos' face now scored Methos' face -- the left eye swollen shut. But Kronos had not stopped there. He had extended the slice downward, was still doing so as he picked up the continuous line that faded right below Methos' left nipple. His knife dug into the flesh and was dragged downward, the body arching away in a tight, mute protest against the pain. Kronos stopped just below Methos' abdomen, driving the blade deep into the flat-planed hip. Methos' scream was muffled against the gag, the hazel eyes fever bright in agony and warning.

"What do you want, Kronos?" MacLeod demanded.

"I have what I want," Kronos sneered and crouched running his hands along the bloodied skin. "Have you sampled this yet, MacLeod? Have you tasted what our sweet Methos has to offer?" His hands crept along the flaccid flesh at Methos' groin. "Have you ever seen him given over entirely to passion and desire and lust? It's a sight to behold, Highlander. And if you have, does he take you or let you take him? Do you take him roughly or sweetly? Do you gentle that wild ancient spirit or rush to meet it? Does his taste burn through you as it does through me? Three millennia and I still crave the taste and feel of him. I will miss him. Will you? You'll never find another lover like him, MacLeod. I never have."

Kronos grinned at the Highlander. "No woman's arms could bring me the ecstasy he does. No lover before or since has ever submitted to me with such passion. Do you feel that way as well? Do you not feel like the most powerful man in the world when his body arches into yours, when he refuses to cry out or surrender until you do?" Kronos' smile grew wider and a flush tinted MacLeod's tanned cheeks as Kronos described Methos in throes of passion. "Do you want to give him anything he wants when your cock is sheathed inside him and he moans your name?"

MacLeod tensed as Kronos brought the blade up again, pressing the tip into the sensitive flesh just below Methos' navel and pressing inward. Blood flowed over his hand as Methos twitched. "His passions are his only power over me. Did you think he had more? Did you really believe that he was my equal? He was useful, as Caspian and Silas were useful. Quick mind, a hot body -- willing or no. There's no need for lies now, Highlander. Did he tell you how he came to us? He told me he has changed -- but he hasn't. He changed for me -- for a thousand years. Became as bad as I am, used me as his template. Raped and pillaged and killed like a professional. But the moment we parted he went back to what he had been. A man who would fight when he must, kill when he had to but not for the pleasure of it -- only the necessity of it. That is what you wanted to know is it not, Highlander? You still need to know if he is worth saving -- you with your tight little code of morals and ethics. Is the monster he was worth saving?"

"Yes..." Mac hissed, fingers tightening around his sword.

"Very well. Then here is the offer. You have a choice. You can save Methos or," he held up a remote. "You can save Bordeaux. His life weighed against thousands. Appropriate don't you think? The trigger is set for thirty minutes. You have just enough time to get to the reservoir -- and I'll tell you exactly where -- and you can disarm the bomb. Stop the virus. No time to spare. If you engage me -- they will all die. If you do not then Methos will."

Kronos laughed and then drove his blade deeper and ripped it to the side. Methos screamed as the sharp steel tore through his abdomen and Mac had no time to think even as Kronos depressed the remote.

MacLeod lunged, but only landed in the empty spot where Kronos had been beside Methos. His nostrils were assaulted by the stench from the man against the cage. Blood, urine and semen blended to form a noxious mess of dried fluids caked across his entire body. Although his mouth was gagged, Methos spoke to Mac with his eyes, pleading. Duncan knew not if it was for his life, for what he'd done, or to save the city under which Kronos had just placed a death warrant. And he had no time to make sure. Swiftly he used his own knife to cut the bindings around wrists and ankles and easing the body to the floor before turning again to the madman who'd thought to regain the power he'd forfeited with the loss of Methos by his side.

"You're a dead man, Kronos." Duncan bent his knees slightly and spread his arms, knife in one hand and sword in the other. Kronos prepared for the challenge and couldn't help but admire the masculine figure before him, temporarily transformed to a dark lionine animal protecting his own. The long hair was loosened and swung with each movement of MacLeod's head and bunched muscles protested against the confining cloth of his shirt. Methos had chosen his protector well.

He knew the Scotsman had made his choice, but couldn't help taunting him once more before engaging in battle. "The bomb is secured just below the watch house on the dam, under the third support. Black, then white, then red. You remember that, Highlander. Twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds," Kronos laughed with a chuckle, Methos' blood still running over his free hand to spill to the floor. His other held his sword, watching for his opponent's first move.

Duncan MacLeod knew the importance of hanging on to every last thread of rationale, though. He'd won too many fights simply on the basis of keeping a level head. This would be his most difficult by far. He tried not to look in the corner where Methos was stirring, ungagging himself and massaging wrists that still bled freely. The few seconds it had taken him to make his decision to fight Kronos had given the dazed Immortal time to begin his recovery. But all Mac could see from the corner of his eye was a mass of bleeding flesh. The muscles in his jaw worked with his rage and he drew upon centuries of warrior training to breathe evenly and succinctly.

Kronos would have none of that. "Ah, but I see the good people of Bordeaux will have to wait a little longer for their hero, eh?" And the Scotsman could hold back no longer.

"You'll wish I'd only taken your head when I'm done, Kronos," he ground out through clenched teeth. The two men were evenly matched skill-wise. It would all come down to who was the coolest...the calmest -- the luckiest.

Methos watched from his position on the floor, willing his body to heal. The wound in his side was the slowest to mend, being the deepest and freshest of all the others. The memory of ripping flesh and tearing tissue almost made him cry out, but he stuffed one fisted hand into his mouth to muffle the sound. MacLeod didn't need that right now and he would not shame himself by whimpering like a small child. Had it been utter foolishness to believe he could best Kronos after all this time? That he could be the controller rather than the controllee for a change? The dance had been too treacherous and he was far too out of practice. The fine line he'd tread had done naught but slice his feet into ribbons.

A sigh escaped as Methos felt the skin, muscle and tissue over his side begin to heal. Duncan seemed to be holding his own, although Kronos had the strength of the mad on his side. He knew it was terribly cliché, but Methos couldn't help a feeling of pride swell inside as he watched his Highlander defend that damnable righteous code of honor. He tensed when Kronos moved in quickly, slicing the air under MacLeod's arm, ripping shirt and skin alike. Duncan sidestepped and never showed whatever pain may have accompanied the maneuver. Methodical and clean. That's how he'd remained alive and that's how he would win tonight.

Then a movement at the doorway caught his eye and Methos lurched to his feet, intent on stopping the intruder from interference. Silas scanned the room and stopped at the figure leaning heavily against the wall, hands still holding his side.

"I thought you were one of us again," Silas sounded almost like a pouting child.

"There was no *us*, Silas. Only Kronos using those who would fall under his spell once more." He couldn't believe the two of them were standing there talking so conversationally. He used the time to inch his way toward the sword Kronos had tossed away just before taking him. Silas' broad, curved blade hung loosely in his right hand, but Methos wasn't fooled by the casualness of his gesture.

Silas watched the fighters intently and Methos could tell he was ready to jump in should his leader fall or require help.

"Forget it! You'll have to go through me to get any further in this room."

Silas seemed surprised by this and turned large, blue eyes on Methos. "But, Brother, you wouldn't fight me -- not over an outsider." Methos' relationship with Mac was totally beyond the large blonde's ken. He honestly didn't understand the line Methos had drawn or how close he'd come to stepping over it. Subtle emotions were things Silas had little experience with.

Rather than verbalize his response, Methos finally reached the spot where his sword lay and reached down to sweep it up quicker than the large man could react. Grasping the hilt with both hands, the darker of the two circled around, forcing Silas to turn his back on the other fighters. He stopped when Silas just stood, staring at him in curiosity. Then it dawned on Methos; here he stood, ready for battle, sword in hand, covered in blood and totally naked. His bare feet slapped against the flagstones as he used this unfortunate state of affairs to his advantage. He felt lighter, more agile -- he could maneuver with ease, something Silas would never be able to do.

The muscles in his legs and arms worked with each movement and neither opponent realized what a vision of symmetrical perfection he displayed as each maneuver was executed with precise grace and balance. Methos was fully healed now and without the bulky covering of his usual garb, was as a marble statue, come alive.

Before Silas could attack, Methos tried to reason with the only one of them who'd ever shown him real kindness. "You can walk away now, *Brother*," he emphasized what they'd meant to each other at one time. "Kronos is dead. He'll never leave this building alive and you don't have to follow." He knew he'd let Silas leave if he chose, but the man's next words killed any hope of that happening.

"And it's because we are Brothers that I fight you now. We cannot be divided again but by death." So be it.

Methos spun around and skidded to a halt, feeling the cool floor sliding under his feet. His heart was not in the battle at first. He fought Silas half-heartedly until the gentle giant's swing took a chunk of meat out of his thigh the size of a grapefruit. He'd have to kill him and there was no getting around it. But the next moments made him wonder if he'd waited too late to enter the fight seriously. Blood from his newest wound flowed down his leg, making his purchase unsteady and weak. His foot slipped in the sticky fluid, causing him to fall right at Silas' feet. Rolling to the side, the wide blade barely missed his head, but rather sparked off the stones of the floor.

Staggering to his feet with Silas hot on his heels, Methos practically ran into MacLeod and Kronos, their fight having moved to just a few feet from them. The deep brown eyes that once had meant security, safety and love now spoke of revenge and questions unanswered. Kronos was goading Mac on further with his barbs of Methos' humiliation at his hands. _Don't listen to him_ Methos projected. _I am nothing to you anymore._

But that small smoldering bit of hope flared before easing once more into the darkness of Methos' soul. Had he imagined the look of reassurance in his Highlander's eyes...the slight twitching of lips meant to support and lend strength?

He continued to avoid Silas' sword, swinging away from the other battle, taking the danger with him. Once Methos' blade connected solidly with that of his opponent and the vibration dancing up his arm nearly lost the contest then and there. He snuck another look at MacLeod, now pushing Kronos back with the pure might of justice. Methos gripped his sword firmly and sidestepped Silas once more, but this time he recovered much faster than the lumbering beast of a man before him. With all the grace of a cat, the dark head followed but a split second behind the arms that were swinging his sword like a toy. He could not have choreographed the move more perfectly. Silas' head arched through the air as Methos' body smoothly executed the deadly ballet, spinning to a halt with arms outstretched and head held high. The last thing he saw before the first jolt of quickening hit him was the culmination of the other performance being played out in the room.

Duncan had had Kronos on the defensive for the last several moments. His will to win enhanced by the knowledge that Methos fought beside him again. Finally he had the Horseman leader on his knees and there was nowhere else to go. It was only a matter of getting his blade through the weakened defenses of his opponent. And Kronos saw it too.

"Just remember Highlander. The next time you suck the cock of your lover--the next time you take him tenderly in your arms--it was always me he wanted. It's me he sees when he's fucking you. He was my whore first," The mocking words were the last Kronos would utter in this life.

The room was charged instantly with the combined energies of over three thousand millennia.Ancient screams echoed through Duncan's head and he was thrown back against the cold, damp wall, but had not the strength to even hold himself against it.The Highlander fell to his knees, his head jerked backwards, giving him a fair view of Methos, physically but feet away -- yet hundreds of miles removed in the throes of Silas' quickening. Then even in death, the shock and horror of Kronos and his twisted mind ripped the last vestiges of control from MacLeod, just as Kronos had taken control in life.He never heard the low moan, building in intensity, coming from the man whose life he'd just saved.

It began low, deep...somewhere from the very pits of his bowels. The first minute of grief for Silas and what he'd been forced to do was replaced by an overpowering sense of depravity and sensory overload.He was not prepared for the primitive psyche of the gentlest of the Horseman.Silas had been a hedonist in the purest sense of the word. When he was hungry he ate, tired he slept, what he wanted he took.So simple, yet the current flowing through Methos now was anything but.A combination of sadness, need, want -- a craving so animalistic in nature no modern language could voice its cry.

Head thrown back, spine arching from the tongue of fires flowing up his legs and through his groin, Methos groaned his need.Long, sensuous fingers reached out for tangible evidence that he'd survived the battle and found grounding in the soft flesh of the other immortal, oblivious in the midst of yet another battle with Kronos. 

The instant Methos touched MacLeod he felt the earth settle beneath him and the need grew stronger.Hands supporting his weight completed the sense of grounding.He let his head fall forward, shoulders heaving with the effort not to cry, laugh and shout the joy he felt.Duncan was alive and it didn't matter any longer that Silas was dead by his hand or the city of Bordeaux might breathe its last after tonight.Lean, sensuous hips rolled into the feeling, pressing downward as if remembering the luxurious feel of a well-muscled, tall figure beneath him.

Then he was wrenched back, the connection lost, torn from him with a pain no less fierce than the tortures Kronos has inflicted. And it was Kronos still, and Silas, and Mac, the three presences twisted together in the last agonizing burst of the Quickenings. Methos heard Duncan scream but whether from pain or loss, he could not tell as he was overwhelmed by Mac' sense of loathing, his disgust and hatred of all that the Horsemen were and had been. His own loathing and weakness rose up to meet his lover's and for one brief flash he saw through MacLeod's eyes, saw himself through Duncan's horror and grief. _How can you grieve for what you hate?_ was the last coherent thought he had before the grief welled up within and drove him once more to his hands and knees.

Methos was certain Mac had seen himself through other eyes as well. The Highlander's presence was the only anchor he could cling to, hold on to while his past ripped through both of them. Kronos' past...Silas'...even Caspian reared his head amidst the death and despair, until he could no longer separate his own history from theirs or MacLeod's. Then the sweet agony of desire was on him again, his body convulsing under the force of it with the intensity and ecstasy of an orgasm but without the release.

When it was done with him, Methos could not move, nor cared to. Everything he had ever wanted had been shattered under the force of the Quickening. There was not enough hope in him to even sustain his tiny prize. MacLeod loathed him and the mere miracle of the Highlander's life was no longer enough of a shield against the open wounds in his soul left behind from the combined deaths of his brothers and against Mac's hatred. MacLeod's presence burned into what was left of his soul, tried to fill the gaps and failed and Methos let the building sobs in his chest spill out, denied any end to his losses. He was only peripherally aware that another Immortal loomed close, that he could not, even if he wanted to, raise a hand in his own defense.

"Cassandra!" Mac's voice ripped though Methos' sobs as he finally identified who stood over him. 

His own personal angel of death. Thank the gods...

"You want him to live?" She sounded incredulous. Methos was wondering why she even bothered to ask.

"I want him to live!" Mac said in a tone so dragged with pain and weariness it but added to Methos' own.

He heard her move. Heard the air sliced with the edge of a blade when Mac's voice snapped out again."Cassandra! I want him to LIVE!"

But why? Methos could no more comprehend that choice than he could the fact that Cassandra obeyed MacLeod's command.

The clatter of steel dropping hollowly against the floor made him flinch and Cassandra's footsteps faded away. The echoes ringing against the concrete and steel seemed harsh and sharp to his overtaxed senses and Methos cared not at all as he dragged air into his lungs. Mac's protest barely registered in his mind. The fact that his lover...no, the Highlander...not his any longer.... The fact that Mac was able to rub two thoughts together and come up with words was beyond Methos' ability to comprehend. Even when the words were directed at him...as they were now. Hands touched his shoulders and he flinched, pulling away but they were relentless as he was turned.

"Methos?" Concern. How very odd, Methos thought as he tried to concentrate on what Duncan was saying. "I have to get to the reservoir," Mac said but his hands pressed against the still healing wound in Methos' thigh, the less agonizing one in his side. Touching, checking.

"You have time," Methos managed. That's right -- Mac still had to save Bordeaux. He was the Hero after all and Methos was.... was what, now? "I fucked with the timer," Gods his voice sounded normal even to his own ears. "It's off by an extra thirty minutes or so. I didn't want you to have to cut it too close."

The hands fell away slowly and Methos dared to look into the dark eyes so wide in shock and surprise. "Me? You thought I...."

"That was the plan, Mac. Save Bordeaux. Save the world," Methos murmured and fought for his feet. A strong hand caught his arm, pulling him upward and he leaned against the cage. How can Mac be so steady after *that*? He wondered, not noticing that the hand was still on his arm. Nausea reeled through him, Silas' death like some bitter pill he would be swallowing forever.

"Go on...," he managed. "I'll get dinner started."

The joke fell flat while Mac stared at him with something akin to horror in his face. _What did I expect? What did you expect, Mac? How could you possibly ever understand? This...these games of Kronos' are so far out of your ken you could never understand. But you'll remember...that I was his whore, his lackey...his...whatever he needed *when* he needed it..._

Finally he felt the hand, the touch burning into him, warming his skin but not quite reaching his soul or his heart. He jerked away clinging to the bars. Concentrating on staying upright, on holding his little prize with both hands so Mac could not try and wrench it away from him. Mac was so close -- heat pouring off his body, strength there waiting to be taken, to be used.

A hand on the back of his neck and Methos went absolutely still. "Be here when I get back. Can you manage that much?"

"I have no place to go." That much, at least, was true. But having no place to go didn't mean he couldn't go anyway.

"Methos -- "

"I bought you time, Mac. Not forever," he said harshly and still would not look at the face again, afraid of what he might see -- or might not see.

One stroke across his shoulders, as gentle as a kiss but not as satisfying. It would be the only good-bye they would have. Methos remained still until those steps faded as well, until Mac's presence no longer sent a mix of pain and pleasure along his nerves. The presence gone, the sense of loss was too immediate...too overwhelming and he sank to his knees again. A few minutes to regain his strength, his will. His bag was already packed. He could be out of the base and halfway to anywhere before Mac returned. He shivered at a movement of air and found a bitter smile for himself. Putting clothing on was probably a good idea.

The sharp, harsh murmur/feel of another caught him off guard. Not MacLeod. He knew Mac's signature like no other's but this one was old -- rough and smooth, stressed. He lifted his head.

"Hello, Cassandra," it was inane but he had rather expected her. Mac's plea for his life had apparently lost its force the moment the Highlander was out of sight.

"I couldn't do it in front of him, but I can now," Cassandra said coldly. "And tell him you came after me. He'll believe me."

"He won't," Methos said. Whatever else Mac might believe of him, he knew Methos would not attack Cassandra -- had to know Methos didn't care enough to try. But Mac would care if Methos killed her? One more nail in the coffin of a love that was never meant to be. Despise her as he might, Methos could not, in any conscience, blame the woman in front of him for the depth of her hatred. "So do you just kill me or do I get to fight for my life?" he asked knowing the answer already.

"What do you think, monster?" Cassandra hissed and Methos rolled as her blade came down. He was unsteady on his feet. The Quickenings he and Mac had shared had all but healed him but he still felt disoriented and not quite attached to his body. He dived for his sword, feeling the tip of Cassandra's rake across his shoulder. He came up under her blade, barely able to avoid having her swing rip open his throat.

She had gotten better over the centuries -- never Kronos' match, but then neither had Methos been. Her attacks were further fueled by hatred, by betrayal and a passion for revenge that burned as brightly as Kronos' passion for domination had.

But there was no real doubt of the outcome and Cassandra knew it. Planned for it as he held her down, sword pressed to the white column of her throat. "I'll haunt you forever and Duncan will never forgive you for this -- any of it," she snarled at him, claw-like fingers digging into the wrist that held her throat.

"Yes, well, you've made sure of it, haven't you?" he asked softly and swung. Her body dropped and rolled to the edge of the slab, the splash barely noticeable in the black water. With a sob of rage and despair Methos flung his blade aside, heard it hit metal and splinter, the steel snapping and dropping in two bell peals of defeat.

Cassandra's age alone guaranteed that her Quickening would be at least as devastating as the one he had shared so recently with Mac. _It doesn't matter if you haunt me, witch. Mac was there long before and will remain long after,_ he thought as the elemental forces coalesced and gathered against him. He dropped to his knees as the first burst of energy began arcing, feeling Cassandra's hatred rise up as palpably as the winds -- then he was driven back as both that hatred and the arcs of lighting struck him at the same time. They drove him back as he twisted, trying to escape the pain and the emotion and the underlying swell of sensation that was both exquisite and soul destroying. The floor fell away beneath him and his grounding contact with anything failed him. Ice cold water closed around him, the elemental forces driving him deeper into the water, pain causing what little air he had in his lungs to be expelled in a massive convulsion. The darkness that finally took him was as black and cold as the water he drowned in -- but even that dark place seemed filled with light compared to the hollow despair and sense of loss that overcame him at his death.

*******

He could breathe. It hurt to do so -- the ache and burn familiar to anyone who has ever drowned. He coughed and the burn grew harsher but it also hurt too much to scream or moan or do anything but whimper.

He was cold. The kind of coldness that scarred bone. But there was warmth close by; he could feel it in isolated bands across his back and arms, more pressed against his chest as he moved -- as he was moved. It was a damp warmth, though. Warm enough but smelling of sodden cloth and the stench of fish and brine. Of blood and sweat and something else. A scent that had only one source and that was as imprinted into his olfactory senses as the name was branded into his heart.

"Mac...?" he managed it, afraid to open his eyes lest it be more dreams, more fantasies, more torment. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

"I'm here," gently said, the voice thick with emotion and raw in its own right. The warmth grew more palpable as he was held, a hand rubbing the coldness from his flesh, the voice washing a bit of ice from his soul. The voice continued and Methos had to concentrate on picking up what was being said. "...I thought she had killed you. Then I ...realized you had killed her. I saw the Quickening on the road on my way back. When I got here you were in the water and I couldn't see you...your... head..." The husky voice broke and Methos reached out instinctively to comfort. His fingers were caught and squeezed almost painfully and he made no sound and still kept his eyes closed, hearing Mac's heart beat rapidly under his cheek.

***

Methos barely remembered Mac getting him to the hotel. Once there, the privacy of their room, in the safety of MacLeod's arms, he slept. He vaguely recalled being roused from time to time to drink something or be guided to the bathroom. There had been at least one bath he was sure -- possibly more but it was all indistinct. All he was positive of was that every time he woke, he woke to the feel of Mac's strong arms holding him or at least gentling him back into sleep within moments.

Later, Mac told him he'd slept for nearly seventy-two hours straight. Immortal healing was all very well for wounds but did nothing to alleviate exhaustion or depression or stress. By the time Methos was ready to actually take some interest in the day to day necessities of living, MacLeod was the one looking and acting stressed.

Methos was aware Mac had watched him while he slept-watched over him protectively and anxiously. Ready to actually think for a change, rather than react, Methos watched the strain fade like magic from the dark eyes and the tense mouth eased into a smile at Methos' simple request for something to drink.

Mac sat next to him as he drank the provided juice, ignoring the half-hearted demands for a beer, and sweeping the dark silk of Methos' hair from his forehead as he set the glass aside. Methos might have crabbed at him for Mac's sudden and incessant need to touch him except he liked it, wanted it and was embarrassingly susceptible to mild panics if Mac were not close.

At some point Mac got him clothes -- new clothes and Methos didn't even ask what had happened to the gear and belongings he had taken to the base. His sword was here, laid out carefully on the dresser on a piece of cloth -- both halves of it. The break was jagged -- not something that could be repaired but Mac had cleaned the steel anyway until it shone as brightly as the katana lying next to it. There was another sword there as well, one Methos recognized with a rather morbid fascination, also cleaned -- Mac having taken better care of Kronos' blade than the owner ever had.

"I...thought you might want to keep it," Mac said evenly when he found Methos staring at it.

"Your trophy, MacLeod. Not mine," Methos said unable to get to what possible reasoning MacLeod had used and then he rose, struggling to get out of the room -- needing air and space. Mac was all solicitousness, touches as gentle as if he were handling a wild thing. But he also never left Methos alone for more than a few moments at a time. The care the same the Scot would lavish on any wounded creature. Methos sought the balcony staring out a different Bordeaux than he'd ever really expected to see -- almost snapping at Mac to leave him alone for a few minutes when the Warrior followed him silently, nursing a cup of coffee.

"Nice view," Methos said instead trying to lean casually against the railing. Mac managed it better, putting his back to it and glancing over his shoulder.

"It is. Cassandra liked it," MacLeod said quietly and Methos looked away. Time for the judgment, the *now that you're better I think it's best we went our separate ways* part of the sentence. He sought and found his tiny prize. He couldn't begrudge Mac his feelings. "...knew she couldn't let go of her hatred. You had no choice." Methos caught only the end of Mac's words and then wasn't sure he'd heard them correctly.

"We always have choices," Methos said because it seemed appropriate to say something.

"Maybe. You could have chosen to let her take your head. I'm glad you didn't."

Methos stared at him to find the dark eyes watching him; handsome face not set in anger or disgust, just a little sad.

A mirthless chuckle escaped Methos. "Yes, well, Kronos said survival is what I do best."

"I never understood what that meant to you before. You survived more than I think I'm capable of enduring."

"You can learn to endure anything, MacLeod, given motivation enough."

He spoke, but knew Duncan would never understand the depths he actually *would* go to for survival.

Mac nodded and it was the Highlander's turn to look away. "Rather an extreme way to tell me to mind my own business."

"Well, Mac, you don't have such a great track record of doing so and the subtle approach doesn't always work with you," Methos said. His tiny prize was burning bright. He could survive this torture as easily as anything Kronos had offered.

"Did you plan it all -- from the start?"

"Plan what? I only had one plan, Mac. Stay alive."

"And keep me alive? Because that's what this was all about wasn't it?" Suddenly Mac's voice had turned hard...anger brimming just below the surface.

"I wanted to keep you out of it."

"Or did you want me in it so I could kill Kronos?"

The protest sprang from mind to lips and stopped there. "If I'd been able to do it he would have been dead a long time ago," Methos said. _Gods know I thought about it often enough._ "We were brothers, MacLeod -- in blood, in war, in everything but birth. Judging him was like judging myself. For a thousand years he was closer to me than anyone before or since." _Until you...two years and I can wipe out ten centuries of inseparatabilty without blinking an eye._

"And Cassandra?"

"One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod," Methos murmured because it was true, because he wanted Mac to at least know there was some part of him that had not been taken over entirely by Kronos' madness.

"Am I one of those regrets?" It was said so softly Methos almost missed it and then realized Mac had moved in close -- very close and Methos could do nothing to avoid the look in the dark eyes, nor could he read what answer Mac wanted to hear.

But he deserved an answer -- if nothing else Mac deserved that much. Either answer could be the last wedge to drive them apart. Methos already thought it was inevitable, but he couldn't release the faint spark of hope. "No," Methos said at last -- offering the last thing he could to his lover. The truth.

"You were going to leave, disappear, if Cassandra hadn't shown up again, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least I can thank her for that."

"For what? For stopping me? Why?"

Mac actually let a smile warm his face. "Saved me the trouble of having to search the planet for you -- or at least this part of France."

"Search for -- why in the name of all that's holy would you want to do that?" Methos said bitterly. "I know what I've done and been, MacLeod. There isn't any court in the world that can pass judgment on my past."

"Judgment's already been made," Mac said and his hands were empty of the coffee cup as they slipped over Methos' shoulders, then gently worked upward along his throat and into his hair. The broad thumbs rubbed gently at the sensitive points under Methos' ears as his head was tilted back.

"You were pronounced guilty for being a fool. Someone as old as you should know better," Mac said softly and then his lips brushed Methos' eliciting a startled parting that Mac took full advantage of with no hesitation. Methos wanted to protest but found it lost under the sudden warmth flooding through him. He was almost afraid to taste the tongue tasting him, exploring his mouth, renewing its acquaintance with his feel and texture until Mac started the gentle suction, coaxing him, inviting him. Methos moaned softly, one hand gripping the rail in a death grip, his other hand coming up hesitantly to feel the warm cheek, to stray to the dark hair and finger it.

Methos pulled back first, almost gasping, his body surrendering to the dull aching need as quickly as it ever had with Kronos. Possibly faster. His jeans were too tight, the air too warm and he seemed to have caught a fever of some sort -- he was trembling so violently.

"If I've been judged then what's my sentence? What do I owe?" he asked shakily, hardly daring to look up.

"First, you're under house arrest until I know you won't try to escape your punishment," Mac said, his eyes darkening briefly in regret for his choice of words but Methos barely noticed them. "Then you have to tolerate the rigid stupidity of your appointed jailer -- that would be me," he added in case Methos misunderstood and his expression lightened when the first hint of a smile touched his lover's mouth. "And finally, after much deliberation and contemplation, you have to forgive your accuser -- if you can," the last was said without humor but with a hope that Methos knew was reflected in his own eyes.

"What I've done -- " Methos began.

" -- Is past. I can accept it, Methos. I think I already had before... before I followed you here. Started to. But there was so much -- we fear what we don't understand and you were right. I never will understand. I wasn't there. Who's to say I wouldn't have made the same choices?"

"You wouldn't have," Methos said with conviction. "And as for forgiveness -- "

Mac's hand pressed against his lips. "Not now. You have to think about it -- for a really long time. I've constructed this whole new jail for us to occupy while you serve your sentence. Be a shame for it to go empty..." Mac said catching his fingers and pressing them to the center of his chest where his heart was beating solidly, rapidly.

_I could wait long enough for Mac's heart to count off every life I took -- every life I lost..._ Methos thought idly as he nodded, unable to speak, only to agree. It seemed like a good plan and he started counting, until Mac's mouth found his again and he lost track and had to start all over again.

****

Coming out of the darkness was no longer so terrifying as Methos woke, still disoriented but not wary. Mac lay spooned against him, one muscular arm across his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, their legs tangled with not even a sheet between them.

"Go back to sleep, you're safe," Mac's voice was husky with sleep, lips pressing briefly against Methos' skin to soothe and comfort and his grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

"How do you know when I'm awake?" Methos asked after a moment. He knew when Mac woke as well, where he was -- vaguely. MacLeod's presence had indeed been burned into his soul.

"Practice," Mac said with a chuckle and lifted his head to kiss the bare shoulder Methos presented as he twisted slightly in the bed. "Maybe the...the Quickenings we shared. I just know. Your...presence...changes, like a whisper in my ear."

Methos closed his eyes, unable to stop the small tensing in his body as he thought of that brief moment when he had been overwhelmed by both Silas and Kronos' presences -- and Mac's. The last had been his anchor.

Mac pulled at his shoulder, easing him onto his back at the transmission of that tension, studying him carefully. He touched his lover with a gentleness that made Methos feel fragile as spun glass.

"I won't break, Mac," Methos whispered.

"No. I'm not sure you can be broken -- although God knows Kronos tried," And then it was Mac's turn to shudder and tense. Methos could only imagine what was seen on the inward turn of his lover's eyes. Not pretty and not pleasant, obviously. "How he could -- I'll never understand that kind of ...love..."

Methos had expected disgust, but heard only confusion and concern in the rich lilt of his lover's voice.

"Hardly love," Methos said, turning on his side to face him -- his turn to gentle and soothe. "I doubt Kronos ever loved anything in his life -- except power."

"No, it was love," Mac said suddenly, pushing himself up and propping his head on one hand. "Twisted, possessive -- but it's what he felt. He would never have taken your head, Methos. No matter what. I didn't know it at the time -- I'm not sure he did either. But he did love you. Maybe the only way he knew how."

Methos was silent, knowing there was a question between them again and not sure how to answer it -- if he could answer it.

"I was his whore, Mac. That's what I thought -- what he thought. If I loved him at all I never knew it either. And it's not him I see in your arms. It was you I saw in his -- sometimes. But mostly it was him. I couldn't have summoned your face for.... to replace Kronos' for what he wanted...how he wanted."

Mac moved in closer, enfolding him, buffering him against the memories that brought more pain than the actual events.

"I know...I saw...." Whatever Mac might have seen or garnered from Kronos Quickening was too much for the Scot to speak of and Methos understood as he lost himself in the kiss, to the touches that burned his blood as Mac tried to erase the horror and the betrayal. There was no comparison between Mac and Kronos -- never had been as Methos gave up willingly to MacLeod what Kronos had been denied even to his death, the complete surrender of Methos' ancient soul. Mac's hands and mouth were everywhere, his urgency no less rapacious than Kronos' but in all else it was only MacLeod that Methos opened to, mouth and body, spirit and passion. Being taken had never felt so much like giving as in the Highlander's arms. Pleasure was heaped upon pleasure as the sure hands touched and pressed, probed and parted. Mac's mouth closed over his nipple with gentle pressure then moved lower to trace the hollow of his hip before tasting him slowly, soft mouth easing the straining hardness of his cock until Methos was gasping and moaning. He wanted no savagery even had Mac been capable of it. For every remembered bruise or cut or pain there was only the soothing balm of kiss and touch, erasing the memories until Methos was unable to contemplate how easily he had returned to the darker side of his passions.

"Let me love you," Mac said against his throat as if permission were needed and Methos gave it wordlessly as he was filled. His moans became short gasps of pleasure as he arched into the strong embrace, into the gentle possession. Body straining to merge with his lover until they found the point of convergence together and he dropped from nightmare into heaven with Mac's strength carrying him all the way.

And there was more, as he was gentled from his shudders, kissed from tension's aftermath, and thanked without words. The last alone enough to allow his tiny prize to bloom into its full potential.

"I do burn for you," Mac said softly, his body covering Methos', cheek pressed against his chest and still stroking him as Methos threaded his fingers through the dark mane spread over his skin. "Kronos cut deep with that. More because I understood it -- and I didn't want to. I didn't want -- don't want to be anything like him. Not for you, with you -- or in any way."

"You aren't," Methos reassured him with a faint smile at his Scotsman's doubts. "And Kronos didn't understand that at all. Passion he could summon, response and desire but not this. Not this kind of merging when I can lose myself -- lose all of it and never fear it won't be returned. Everything about him was about dominance and possession. About taking, subjugating -- subduing. It made him insane that I would give to you what I denied him every time -- he could have killed me for it and never understood. Would have. Tried. Did, more times than I can remember," Methos said and Mac pulled himself up against the pillows to draw Methos into his arms, against his chest.

"And why did you? You suffered...Methos, he wanted you to hurt -- wanted to hurt you. Wouldn't it have been easier just to give in?"

Silence fell between them for long moments as Methos tried to put into words both his reasons and his emotions. He would never tell Duncan about that tiny, secret part that begged for Kronos' domination. Instead, he concentrated on the obvious.

"Maybe, but he never asked, Mac," he said at last, fingers seeking MacLeod's and reassured when Mac's hand closed over his. "He took, assumed -- forced, every part of what we had. Demanded, but never asked. And because he didn't, I wouldn't. I knew he needed me, wanted me, but never that he -- "

"And if you had, would it have made a difference?"

"I...I don't know, Mac. I suppose I never will. But it took a thousand years for me to walk away."

"Patient man," Mac said, a small jest and no accusation. "What made you leave? Was it Cassandra?

"In part -- maybe. I was out scouting one day and I just kept going. There was no plan. I kept expecting Kronos to come after me. Kept expecting I would go back. But I didn't -- nor did he."

Mac cleared his throat. "He waited. For nearly thirty years in the same general area. Checked for Quickenings, thinking you dead. Searching to see if you'd been captured -- held prisoner. He never...he never expected you to just leave."

Methos closed his eyes and turned into Mac's arms again, drawing strength from his embrace and allowing one small lie between them, thinking of Kronos as Mac began making love to him once more. _Oh, my brother, a few words and we might all have been spared this,_ Methos thought, not without a certain anger at himself for never having seen it. Then he surrendered the could-have-beens and the last touch of his brother to his lover, to Mac's soul cleansing loving and vowed not regret what he had lost or gained ever again.

-finis-

**Author's Note:**

> The names remain the same, but that's about it. Any similarity to the actual scripts is purely coincidental. Beware! This story contains angst, same gender sex, angst, violence -- oh, and did we mention angst? This is not for the weak at heart.  
> And in case you didn't get the message the first time: WARNING: Rated ADULT NC-17. Here Be Extreme Violence, and we ain't just talkin' beheadings!!  
> ************  
> EDGE OF DARKNESS  
> by Meghan Black & Maygra de Rhema  
> (and M&M Productions; melts down your keyboard, but not your hand)
> 
> © 1997
> 
> ************


End file.
